


The Worst Nightmare Ever

by MissMoe



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: Anal Sex, Asami being Asami, Asami is a fool for Takaba, Blow Jobs, Idiots in Love, JoJo References, K-pop References, M/M, Phone sex Asami-style, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Slice of Life, So there will be sexy times, Takaba being Takaba, Takaba doesn't know he's gay, They dance and it is embarrassing, They don't talk and it's a problem, Things can get dark, This is Finder, Yeah there's karaoke, call me Daddy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-07-10 21:01:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 46,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15957467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoe/pseuds/MissMoe
Summary: Takaba wakes up one morning and finds himself nine months pregnant. A confession follows, sort of, and possibly some other stuff. Was that vague enough?Or, random vignettes of two sexy fools in love.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted as a 500+ word one-shot while I was waiting for Yamane-sensei to publish the next installment of Finder no Hyouteki. Now that the first chapter of Vol. 10 is finally out, I was inspired to turn my one-shot into a multi-chapter fic.

 

“Asami! You bastard! What did you do to me?”

Asami toweled off his hair and poked his head out of the bathroom. A puff of steam escaped into the master bedroom where Takaba was lying sprawled on the silk-sheeted mattress, the eider down duvet thrown off of his naked body. “What’s wrong?” Asami asked as he let his eyes roam unabashed over taut creamy flesh.

“What’s _wrong_?” shrieked Takaba. “Are you _blind_?”

“I’ll have you know my vision is 20/10,” Asami stated. A pillow came sailing through the air at him. He caught it easily and calmly walked to the bed, then clobbered Takaba over the head with it. “In a foul mood, are we?” The look of abject horror on Takaba’s face made Asami set the pillow aside, and when Takaba next burst into tears, he took the young man into his arms, kissed his unruly hair. “It’s not that bad,” he soothed.

“How can you say that?” came an angry retort. “Don’t you see this?” Takaba jabbed a finger at his distended belly. “I look like I swallowed a fucking basketball!”

“Well, did you?” Asami teased. “What idiot would do a thing like that?” 

“Stop it, you jerk! _You_ did this!” Takaba beat his fists against Asami’s chest, sobbing and hysterical. “You knocked me up!” None of this made any sense. Last night he was a normal twenty-three-year-old wannabe photojournalist failing to make a successful career for himself, the next morning he was nine months pregnant. How was this even possible? And yet…Asami Ryuichi…the man was capable of _anything_! This Takaba had learned the hard way on more than one occasion. If anyone could make a boy nine months pregnant overnight, it would be Asami. “How are you going to fix this?” Takaba cried. He rubbed his palms over his swollen abdomen, marveling at how translucent the skin looked stretched so tight, spidery veins tinted greenish-blue meandering right below the surface. It was both awe-inspiring and appalling. “Oh my god, I’m going to have stretch marks!” The realization prompted another loud wail from Takaba. He didn’t have much going for him besides an adorable face and perfect skin, and now it seemed like he would have nothing but that adorable face to fall back on during hard times because he could say ‘sayōnara’ to that perfect skin.

“Cocoa butter,” Asami suggested. “Isn’t that what women use? We could try that on you.”

Takaba stared in disbelief at Asami’s nonchalant demeanor, then back down at his own hideously altered body, and screamed once more. “I can’t see my dick!” Was it gone? Holy shit! Had his cock fallen off? Would he sprout a pair of tits in the next minute? What was happening? “Asami! Asami! Help me!”

This was a nightmare and all Takaba wanted to do was wake up from it and have everything go back to normal. Asami hated babies, so why wasn’t he furious over this sudden prospect of fatherhood? Did that mean he was okay with it? Or would Asami kick him to the curb when the baby was born? Takaba struggled and struggled but it was no use. Why couldn’t he find his way out of this nightmare?

“Wake up,” Takaba moaned weakly, consciousness leaving him as the helicopter plummeted through the sky towards the ground, the Russian pilot and his gun-toting accomplice both shot dead in the cockpit, Asami still handcuffed next to him in the passenger seat. “The baby…don’t let it die…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in case it isn't totally obvious, this weird little chapter is basically Takaba suffering one of those mental meltdowns under extreme duress, but instead of seeing his life flash before his eyes, Takaba imagines that he's inexplicably pregnant and it's all Asami's fault. The baby growing inside him is really just a symbol/metaphor of their deepening love for each other.


	2. Chapter 2

Asami successfully landed the helicopter on the sandy beach before blacking out, because that’s just what badass crime lords do. Takaba was able to drag them both off the shore and onto the deserted island, because that’s just what hotheaded brats do. Upon awakening, Asami got down to the dire business at hand, performing the kind of tasks necessary for survival after a shootout inside an aircraft and an emergency crash landing: he drills his boy nice and deep, repeatedly. Then, in the haze of post-orgasmic bliss following such vigorous banging, two errant words slip past the iron gates of Asami’s carefully guarded heart and into Takaba’s ears.

“Suki desu.” 

Well, dang, it’s not as if he said “aishiteru”—only chumps make such ludicrously over-the-top pronouncements—but the difference seems to be lost on his highly strung Aki. Ten minutes of non-stop wailing is enough to make Asami regret saying that slightly less embarrassing version of “I love you” for the rest of his life, but if he were honest, he’d have to admit that he thoroughly enjoys making Takaba cry. Maybe not _that_ way—stupid Hallmark sentiments!—but he certainly gets a thrill every time he pulls those tears from Takaba’s eyes when he’s making him cum for the third time in one fuck session. Even more shocking, though, is what Takaba tells him when the brat finally pulls himself together after his sobfest.

“I…I had this dream when the chopper was going down…no, I mean this _nightmare_ that I was preg-o!”

 _Aww, poor thing_. Asami runs his hand through Takaba’s hair. It’s wild and sticking up all over from the rain and humidity and, quite possibly, the jizz mixed in. “In-ter-esting. Who knocked you up?”

“Who do you think?” Takaba scowls like only he can and bites Asami on the shoulder. “I had a gigantic belly and I couldn’t even see my dick. I think my nips were hurting, too. It was all your fucking fault!”

Without missing a beat, Asami asks, “Does this mean you’ll grow a nice round bubble butt for me?” He gives Takaba an affectionate pat on the ass. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

“ _Whaaat?_ Why would I ever?”

“Don’t you know? Pregnant women don’t just get big bellies. They get big asses, too. Wait’ll the baby’s born. Your ass will probably double in size.”

“Baka! I’m not pregnant and I am NOT a woman. Have you been hanging out with Kou or something?” His best friend Kou was not the brightest bulb, always reading _The Onion_ online to improve his English comprehension and convinced that it was a legitimate news source.

Asami was ceding no ground, however, his face a serious mask. “No. Why would I ever?”

“You are _such_ a jerk. I only told you about my, uh, baby dream because you _confessed_ to me!”

“And I only expressed my desire for your ass to grow in proportion to—”

“Oh my god, will you _puh-lease_ shut up about my ass! You’ve never complained about it before.”

“Mmm…” Asami fondled both of Takaba’s ass cheeks, squeezing and kneading them between his big hands, “they could be rounder.”

“They’re round enough for the likes of you, you old pervert!”

Unfazed by such endearments, Asami deadpanned, “So…when are you going to pop one out for me?”

“Pop _what_ out for you?” Takaba barked back.

“A baby. You’re the one who said you wanted one.”

“Are…? Did you break your head or something in the crash? Should I be hunting around for your brains?”

“My brains are fine. Stop changing the subject.”

“Okay.” Takaba sat up and poked Asami in the chest, his face aflame with anger. “I said it was a freaking _nightmare_. A nightmare! And you! Take some responsibility!”

Asami stared back at Takaba. It took all of his steely self-discipline to tamp down the fondness itching to escape onto his face and run rampant in the form of a shit-eating grin. God, how he loved this boy. Nothing filled Asami with more terror than babies, though. It was bad enough watching little Hiroto-kun for one night as a favor to Takaba’s other dumbass best bro, Takato, but the idea of a pint-sized Aki crawling around in diapers was…even more frightening, something scarier than a thousand deaths rolled into one, and yet, he was willing to die a thousand and more deaths for Takaba. How bad could it be to throw a baby into the mix if it would make Takaba happy?

“Do you think there was ever a day when you didn’t appear in my dreams?” Asami asked, all super serious, his gaze like molten lava, his hands now cradling Takaba’s face like he was holding the Holy Grail. Tears started rolling down Takaba’s cheeks, just the way Asami liked. “And in every one of those dreams, you looked like you had swallowed a basketball.”

_____

 

Since I'm in the mood to indulge myself, do check out this terrific video compiled by Chinta Rinmochin featuring my favorite cosplayers, Baozi and Hana. In case you don't know who they are, these two Chinese dudes are a couple in real life: Baozi creates all the props/costumes and Hana does all the hair/makeup.

Here they are as [Asami x Takaba](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGUXAD9H5mk)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Suki" = "to like" in Japanese, but the Japanese language is all about indirectness. Saying "suki desu" is just a stripped down way of saying you like something, but within context, it can also mean "I love you" in a way that is far less formal than saying "aishiteru," a declaration of love that is rarely ever spoken because it's too embarrassing for most Japanese to say.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter was written and uploaded separately as a one-shot called "Saturday Night Freak Show," but I'm slotting it into this fic here as part of Chapter 3 while I wait for Yamane to update the manga. If you've already read the one-shot, then you can just skip the portion of this chapter that begins after the italicized heading "Saturday Night, May 5, ?? Months After the Helicopter Crash."

 

After almost a year of molesting the boy, Asami finally realized what it was about Takaba that made him feel so proprietary, so determined to _own_ him: it was the filthy noises that Asami rips from Takaba’s throat each and every time they fuck, the _aahhhs!_ and the _uunghs!_ and the _A-Asa-miiis!_ that echo loudly in the bedroom or kitchen or bathroom when he has his cock buried to the hilt in Takaba’s tight little ass, when he’s pounding that sweet spot and making Takaba shake apart in screaming ecstasy. It fills him with glorious power to make such a hot mess of his boy, and those keening wails are undeniable proof that he holds Takaba’s life in his hands…or impaled on his throbbing, spurting dick. The thought of painting Takaba’s insides with his cum is almost as satisfying as seeing it leak out of him and drip slowly down his thighs afterwards. It always gets Asami going; no matter how many times Takaba calls him “old man” or “pervert,” the sight of his jism frosting the pink of his Aki-kun’s quivering hole like icing on a donut sends the blood rushing south all over again. 

He wasn’t always this way. Lovers were a dime a dozen for someone as wealthy as Asami, who had killer good looks to boot and a sadistic streak that only made him even _more_ attractive. He’d sampled every kind of carnal pleasure known to man with partners of either sex and everything in between, with high- and low-born paramours, but none of them had captured his attention for more than a night or two. It was almost always one-and-done for him. _Almost_ , because when he stumbled upon a certain twenty-three-year-old wannabe photojournalist by the name of Takaba Akihito, all bets were suddenly off. Asami wasn’t quite sure when exactly he had become helplessly, hopelessly… _attached_ , but the fact that he could no longer contemplate life without the boy was enough to tell him that he was in deep shit. He was dead, so dead to any other, and it was Takaba who had shot him straight through the heart like a snarky Cupid with a cheap dye job.

“You’re a cheeky little brat,” he had told Takaba right at the start. “It makes me want to wreck you in the worst way.”

But it was Takaba who ended up running roughshod all over Asami’s previously frozen soul until Asami was chasing him like a wolf in pursuit of its prey, bloodlust thrumming in his veins, teeth bared and salivating for that juicy morsel. And catch and eat him he did, ravishing him with his mouth, his fingers, his cock. Strange how it only left Asami hungry for more. He took a few bullets for Takaba, tracked him all the way to Hong Kong because by then, Takaba was his and his alone. No one, not even that exquisite, daddy-fixated Feilong, was going to steal what was his. So this is what it had come to: the great Asami Ryuichi wrapped around Takaba Akihito’s little finger, the mighty laid oh so low by love. 

***

_Saturday Night, May 5, ?? Months After the Helicopter Crash_

“I’m not wearing this,” Asami declared, his tone ice-cold and razor-sharp.

Takaba got right up into his face, eyes flashing, hair teased and feathered out and sprayed solid. “Oh, yes you are. You said I could have whatever I want for my birthday.” At that, Takaba whipped out his phone and pressed ‘play’ on the video he had recorded a month ago. Sure enough, there was Asami waving Takaba off with a dismissive, “Fine, we can do what you want for your birthday. Now spread those legs for me wider.”

Asami sighed with frustration and shook the suit jacket in his hands like he was trying to strangle an animal. “Look at these lapels. They’re the size of _bathmats_ , for shit’s sake! How can you expect me to wear this?” He tossed the offending article of clothing across the room and made for the wet bar, where he was going to pour himself a double shot of whisky. God, did he need a drink _ever_. Takaba wasn’t finished with him, though, trailing behind him like an obnoxious puppy nipping at his heels.

“But the theme is _Saturday Night Fever_ and you _promised_ me!” Takaba stamped his feet into the carpet, fists clenched at his sides, cartoon jets of steam shooting out of his ears. “We _practiced_ , for crying out loud!” 

If there was one thing Asami hated, it was being nagged at, one of the reasons he could never abide keeping a long-term lover in the past, because…the nagging. He couldn’t even fathom why he was putting up with this from Takaba. If it were anyone else, there would be brains splattered across all four walls right now. Instead, Asami slammed the 52,000,000 Yen bottle of Macallan whisky onto the tray and gulped down the drink instead of sipping it slowly, he was so annoyed, as if those ridiculous dance lessons weren’t bad enough! He let the whisky burn down his throat and into his belly, where the heat settled onto his roiling gut like a favorite security blanket. Thank the fuck god for quality alcohol.

“If you don’t wear the suit,” Takaba threatened, “then my ass is closed for business!”

Two hours later, Asami found himself at the club in Roppongi that idiots like Takaba found so thrilling. Even worse, he was wearing the offensive white suit jacket with the bathmat-sized lapels, matching polyester vest and slacks, and the top three buttons of his black shirt unbuttoned to reveal his smooth chest. Takaba, meanwhile, was dressed in an equally hideous outfit: an embroidered and sequined floral print shirt with collars wide enough to have a picnic on and brown corduroy bellbottoms that made Asami cringe like mad. This was going to be a long night from hell. 

“Wait here for us,” Asami grumbled to his trusty driver and right-hand man. 

Kirishima pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and nodded in sympathy. He waited until Asami and Takaba had disappeared inside the club before he let out a roar of laughter. It had taken all his will power and self-control to contain himself, but now in the quiet privacy of the car he let it all out, resting his forehead on the steering wheel as his body shook with glee. He had warned his boss long ago, telling him, “That boy is nothing but trouble.” Normally, his boss never even wanted to see the same lover more than once or twice and so it was unusual for Kirishima to say anything when it came to Asami’s personal matters. Takaba was cute in that boyish way, still well beneath Asami and really just a gutter rat trying to be photojournalist of all stupid things, but when Asami insisted on paying the boy visits at three in the morning, and then letting the boy live in his penthouse suite, Kirishima knew his boss was getting in too deep. Tonight, however, was proof positive that Asami had completely lost his mind. After some minutes, Kirishima took off his glasses and wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes with a handkerchief. Then he texted the photo he had stealthily taken of Asami and Takaba earlier to his colleague Suoh, who had the night off.

In less than thirty seconds, his phone dinged with a reply from Suoh: _WTF?_

Kirishima texted back: _I know, right?_

With a satisfied grin, Kirishima lit a cigarette and relaxed back in his seat. This was going to be a great night.

Inside the club, things weren’t exactly panning out to be Asami’s idea of fun, but seeing Takaba so happy made it bearable by the slimmest of margins. He was turning twenty-four but still acting like a fifteen-year-old dumbass, talking too loudly and excitedly to his two loser buddies, Kou and Takato. They sat at a table by the dance floor, their drinks served by heavily made-up women wearing one-piece spandex outfits that accentuated every bump and curve, good or bad. “Never again,” Asami mused to himself as he threw down another drink, “I will never promise Takaba anything ever again.” He was a man of his word, though, so he had suffered through four weeks of private dance lessons with Takaba, all for this moment when one song ended and the first strains of the next one reverberated from the speakers and Takaba jumped out of his seat and veritably shrieked with joy. 

“That’s our song!” Takaba screamed into Asami’s mortified face.

Asami was pulled onto the dance floor and all he could do was shut his brain down because if he allowed himself to even think about what he was going to do, well, he would fucking die on the spot for sure. He let his mind drift away into the ether, let the bone-shaking thud of the music take over, and then he turned his body loose, striking a pose at just the right moment, arm in the air, finger pointing up, then down, hips undulating with the beat as he moved across the dance floor, mirrored disco ball scattering shards of light all over Takaba as the birthday boy danced with and around him, bellbottoms flapping at his ankles, feathered hair a solid helmet about his shining face, and all Asami could think was, “He’s never looked more beautiful.”

___________

Here's the inspiration for Asami's outfit and the dance he does with Takaba: [Saturday Night Fever, More than a Woman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fy0rYUvn7To)

Try not to laugh too hard. I mean, sheesh. 


	4. Chapter 4

Their decidedly unromantic start made it easy for Takaba to deny his feelings in the beginning. After all, he had been abducted and then held prisoner for three days, tied up, drugged, manhandled and violated in the most perverted ways by someone who was a _hentai_ geezer in Takaba’s book. That his abuser had also made him cum like a geyser until he lost count and consciousness, and then saved him from being shot by his own mentor after letting him go, were factual details best swept under the rug. It could have all ended at that point. Takaba could have learned his lesson and minded his own business, kept his nose out of trouble, but no. He just _had_ to run into him at that political fundraiser and then more shit happened and the billionaire crime lord rescued him from that long-haired, opium-smoking Chinese freak, Liu Feilong, took a couple of bullets for him, then rescued him again, got shot at some more, then more rescuing and more shooting and suddenly Takaba’s life had spun out of control or perhaps become a broken record, the needle stuck in a groove that kept repeating the same musical phrase over and over, and that phrase was Takaba screaming the man’s name at the top of his lungs: “Asami!!!!” while getting railed in the ass.

Yes, Asami Ryuichi was wealthy as sin and hot as all fuck despite being _so old_ —that is, a crusty dusty thirty-five to Takaba’s dewy fresh twenty-three—but Takaba didn’t care about the money. He’d never had any to begin with, was perfectly content to split the bill three ways for a hot pot meal and cheap beer shared with his best bros, Takato and Kou. Luckily for Takaba, his friends were as dense as he was in personal matters, not even second guessing him when he moved in with Asami. 

“The bastard stole my stuff. He’s keeping all my shit in his trillion yen penthouse suite. What else can I do? I need my cameras! I have my _career_ to think about!” was Takaba’s nifty justification. 

The problem was, his chosen career as a photojournalist wasn’t exactly going gangbusters by any standards, and Asami’s hotness factor was only increasing exponentially as time went on, which really put Takaba in an existential quandary. What the hell was he doing? Did he love the old fart or something? And if he did, how could he bear the shame and hurt if Asami didn’t love him back? The obscene wealth he could live without, but the mind-blowing sex had become a necessity, an addiction almost, even if he was still playing hard-to-get at times. The more Takaba pushed him away, the more Asami pulled him back, so it was a lose-lose situation for him, or was it win-win? He didn’t even know; he’d never been in a relationship before, if that is what this was. It certainly didn’t help to think about those humiliating instances when he had gone begging to Asami for comfort, for reassurance, for copious amounts of dick. Gyaahhhh!!! When had he become such a cockslut? And was this normal?

The helicopter crash and the events leading up to it had been frightening, terrifying. They had almost gotten shot to shit in the apartment when those rogue Russians busted in, guns blazing, but there’s nothing like the possibility of death to make one stare into the eyes of another man and admit certain truths, like, “There’s no one I’d rather fuck than you.” And even before then, when Feilong had kept him prisoner in Hong Kong and made him service him whilst wearing cute little Chinese outfits, all Takaba could think about was getting back to Asami, seeing his arrogant expression and kissing it right off his face, then riding his cock like a maniac.

Of course, it wasn’t always death and destruction and hostage situations that made Takaba ache for the man. There were all the things that Asami would say to him—calling him “my cute little Akihito” when he was balls deep inside him, or teasing him for ordering lavender honey ice cream at a freaking _bar_ , or threatening to drag him down to the depths of hell (as if!)—things that were embarrassing or infuriating but _so_ Asami. And then there were the unexpected things, too, the sweet gestures, like letting Takaba eat all the sushi, or giving him a private fireworks display, or buying him his very first bespoke suit. Or…quieting a baby in his arms so that Takaba could sleep. Takaba had felt a twinge of jealousy over that. He was the one who had volunteered to babysit little Hiroto-kun for his buddy Takato but, for the love of god, the kid wouldn’t stop crying no matter what Takaba did. And, yet, all it took was one death glare from Asami and the kid was instantly mute. Seriously? How is that fair? Takaba had passed out from exhaustion that night, only to wake up to the sight of Asami standing on the balcony, the infant boy cradled against Asami’s shoulder and snoozing like…a baby, and Takaba could only stare at the man, his heart doing jumping jacks in his chest. He had never seen Asami like that, never thought of him that way, never considered that he could be tender, paternal, dad-worthy material. 

It had confused Takaba to no end. He hadn’t even come out to his friends or his family. For all he knew, he wasn’t even gay. Did lusting after Asami make him gay? Everyone—men and women—lusted after Asami. Could he be faulted for having a weakness common to all other humans? If he _were_ gay, then it was Asami’s fault for being so damn irresistible. He, Takaba Akihito, was blameless in this regard. But Asami making him gay due to his sheer sexiness was one thing; lust was just sexual craving on high octane and Asami had a way of turning everyone into a hungry whore for him. _Falling in love_ with Asami was a different matter altogether, though. Perhaps women had more difficulty separating the two—love and sex—but a man’s heart often had little to do with his cock. A man could fuck one person and love another, no problem-o, so what were these _feelings_ then? And what were those weird dreams that had started at the time of the helicopter crash and recurred with increasing regularity—those bizarre nightmares about having a baby? Asami had told him “Suki desu” when they were on the island, and even though Takaba hadn’t returned the confession aloud, the words were itching to come out despite his fears. This was so unlike him. He wasn’t the fearful sort, but everything to do with Asami was complicated. Before he had met him, Takaba had entertained normal, mundane ideas about his future: have a successful career, meet a nice girl, get married, have a kid, grow old and eventually bite the dust. Now, even as he struggled to attain goal number one (have a successful career), all the other stuff was going up in a puff of smoke it seemed. There would be no nice girl, no marriage, no kid. If he was lucky, he’d be able to skip to the “grow old and bite the dust” stage without getting shot at again. Right? Wasn’t that good enough?

***

It was close to one-thirty in the afternoon, what would be lunch time for normal people but Asami was anything but normal. Takaba was in the kitchen making _breakfast_ for Tokyo’s wealthiest ‘businessman’ while said ‘businessman’ finished taking his shower. As he expertly rolled the egg in the small rectangular pan with his chopsticks, Takaba sang along to the latest hit by Tōhōshinki playing on the radio, a jaunty, catchy tune that made him wriggle his ass. “Woo ooo ooo ooo, it’s alright, it’s okay…”

“I’m surprised you can do that,” came a deep voice behind him. 

Takaba turned to see Asami standing in the kitchen doorway with a towel draped over his shoulders, his hair still damp and disheveled, looking oddly youthful, one might even say _boyish_. “Do what?” Takaba asked with a scowl. He poured another layer of beaten egg into the pan and pretended not to notice Asami’s eyes burning into his skin. Maintaining his cool became impossible when he felt a pair of large hands caressing his ass cheeks through his skimpy shorts. Whatever possessed him to wear those? He should get one of those medieval chastity belts to protect himself from such molestation, if only he had any chastity left to protect!

“I’m surprised you can shake your booty like that after the pounding I gave you last night.” Asami thrust his hips forward as a smug reminder, let Takaba feel the unmistakable bulge of his cock against the crack of his ass.

“Baka,” Takaba spat. Then he cursed himself silently when Asami planted a hot wet kiss on the nape of his neck and he moaned out an “Ah!” before he could choke it back down. “Stop that, you pervert. I’m trying to make you your traditional old people’s breakfast.” Indeed, the miso soup and rice were done and the grilled salmon already cooked and resting in the sauté pan.

“Breakfast can wait,” Asami rumbled against his ear before tracing his tongue along the ridges of the shell.

“Ungh! Shit…” Takaba had a chub already and when Asami reached under his apron and palmed his cock, it stood at attention like the eager soldier it was. “Goddamn it. I’m going to burn the omelet.”

Asami deftly switched off the burner. “There. No more worries.” He turned Takaba around in the circle of his arms, bent down and stole a shallow kiss before carding his fingers through Takaba’s hair and invading his mouth with an aggressive tongue. “Such a good boy, my little Aki-kun.”

“A-Asami,” Takaba protested between kisses, “you said it yourself…after last night…I couldn’t possibly…hmmm…and you’ll have to take another shower…”

“Then make it worth my trouble.” Asami hooked his thumbs in the elastic waistband of Takaba’s shorts and yanked them down past his slim hips, setting Takaba’s cock free and waving like a red flag in the air. “So ready, Takaba, such a greedy slut for me.”

“Stop saying such embarrassing shit!” Takaba wailed as Asami dropped to his knees and sucked Takaba’s cock into his hot mouth. “Oh, fuck! Ah! A-Asami…”

Asami wasn’t holding back. He needed to be at the office in an hour, but luckily for him, Takaba had zero stamina. He cupped one hand around Takaba’s balls and gently rolled them in his palm as he grasped Takaba’s dick in his other hand and pumped and twisted along the shaft as he swirled his tongue around the crown, then laved at the slit before sucking back down on it.

The friction of his cock hitting the back of Asami’s throat did Takaba in within seconds. “I’m coming! Nnnngh…I’m c-c-coming!!!” He would have collapsed onto the floor—his knees were so weak—if it weren’t for Asami abruptly pulling his shorts back up and turning him around to face the stove once more with a firm slap laid on his ass. Th’ fuck? Where was the…copious amounts of dick?

“I’m ready for my breakfast now,” Asami told him as he casually walked out of the kitchen. “Chop chop, boy. I haven’t got all day.”

Why was it always like this? wondered Takaba. Why did it always feel like he was either flying high as a kite or in utter freefall with Asami?

“You jerk-off,” Takaba muttered under his breath. He looked at the half-cooked omelet curdled in the pan and turned the burner back on with a furious flick of his wrist. He was going to cook the shit out of that omelet, burn it to a leathery crisp, and serve it with an innocent smile to that insufferable bastard. “That’ll teach him.” But when he put the dish in front of Asami at the dining table, the man ate it without complaint as he read his paper, gave no indication that it was the worst tamagoyaki ever, and Takaba’s stomach clenched in confusion again. He felt like crying, he was so inexplicably sorry, for what he didn’t know. He thought of the dream he had had last night, the same dream where he was pregnant and in a terrible panic. When Asami turned the page of his newspaper, his face hidden for a few seconds, Takaba rubbed a hand across his chest and his heart did a strange little leap. There it was still; his nipples were sore. He had always been sensitive there, and Asami had sucked and licked and pinched them not too long ago, but this was different. “If my nips start leaking milk,” Takaba swore to himself, “I’m keeping the baby.”

__________

Tamagoyaki = a Japanese style rolled omelet.

Here’s the song Takaba was listening to in the kitchen: [TVXQ, The Chance of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wnHiK5sKgA)

(TVXQ is known as Tōhōshinki in Japan.)

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

His reputation for cruelty and ruthlessness was hard fought and well deserved. In the spheres of big business, politics, and crime—where the lines blurred and a different breed of morality and ethics co-existed with its own version of law and order—these qualities were _assets_ , and Asami Ryuichi held them in spades. He was called many things by lovers and haters alike: bastard, god, demon, boss, murderer, master, philanthropist, pervert, old man. The last two, well, he encouraged the one and tolerated the other, and only from one person: Takaba Akihito. No one else dared to call him ‘pervert’ or ‘old man’ to his face and walked away intact.

His own men didn’t question his actions or decisions, especially in matters concerning his personal life—Asami’s childhood acquaintance Kuroda Shinji being the only exception, and perhaps his assistant Kirishima Kei if Takaba was being particularly bratty, because Kirishima was a hothead like his Aki if all the right buttons were pushed—but they did wonder amongst themselves what had happened to change his heart, a heart that had never been beholden to anyone before. Not even the exotic Liu Feilong could entice Asami to feel anything remotely romantic in nature, and if someone as beautiful and lethal as Feilong could be left pining like an angst-ridden teen girl, then what hope was there for a naïve, honest, ordinary boy like Takaba Akihito, who had no wealth, status, or criminal badassery to speak of?

That was the trillion yen question. 

And, yet, the impossible had happened. The cute boy-next-door with the cheap dye job and potty mouth had been captured and caged by Tokyo’s most notorious crime lord, only for the boy to steal said crime lord’s heart in return. Who’d a thunk it? After the first few hook-ups, his men had simply taken bets on how long the infatuation would last just for the fun of it, but now that a year had passed and Asami’s interest had intensified to eleven on a scale of one-to-ten (unheard of!), they were left scratching their heads in bewilderment. The question on their minds had changed from, “How much longer will boss be interested in Takaba?” to, “Does boss realize he’s in love and…completely _whipped_?” So…now they were taking bets on who _really_ wore the pants in the relationship and the odds did _not_ paint a pretty picture.

Truth be told, it was an awfully jagged pill to swallow for his men at times. Asami was a man of tremendous pride, and this pride extended to the men in his tightly-knit, well-oiled organization, but pictures of him wearing that white polyester suit had started circulating the last few days—probably taken and then tweeted and retweeted a bazillion times by patrons of that club in Roppongi on Takaba’s birthday, not to mention video footage of Asami busting his sick moves on the dance floor with his glittering birthday boy—and that made it super difficult to keep a straight face in the presence of their lord and master. Luckily for Suoh Kazumi, he was a pro at maintaining an expressionless demeanor and, well, he’d already seen the photo that Kirishima had sent him that night and had gotten all his giggles out of his system in the privacy of his own apartment.

***

The day was indeed beautiful, all clear blue skies and the air crisp with the smell of leaves and moist earth. The smoke from Asami’s Dunhill wafted into Suoh’s nostrils, prompting him to breathe in deeply, savoring it. Suoh only smoked when he was on break and, right now, he was decidedly not on break, keeping an eagle eye on both Asami sitting three feet in front of him and on Takaba skittering up and down a stone path, taking pictures of the scenery. He heard his boss sigh and saw him straighten his shoulders and Suoh’s heart went out to him, as much as it could for a man who had never been in love himself.

“The things I do for him,” Asami muttered as he glanced up from his tablet and spared a moment to watch Takaba flitting and fluttering about like a crazed butterfly, camera in hand, absently bumping into the throngs of tourists swarming what is popularly known as Kinkaku-ji, or the Golden Pavilion. It was autumn and the temple and its grounds in Kyoto were only visited by more people in the spring when the cherry trees blossomed. Asami did NOT share the national obsession with cherry blossoms, couldn’t care less about the myriad sakura festivals, so he was grateful that Takaba had asked to come in fall when the trees were aflame with color. That is, until…

The murmur of voices growing louder and louder is what caught Asami’s attention first. They weren’t just ordinary voices like one hears on any given day at a tourist trap such as this, or like the incessant drone rising above the rumble of idling cars at Shibuya Crossing in Tokyo. No, the voices swelled like a wave of tinkling, sing-song chimes, calling back and forth birdlike and wild, and like a tsunami the musical voices rose higher and louder until the buzzing wall of sound crashed around a tall hedge of shaped yews and he saw them: a frightening contingent of schoolchildren marching two-by-two, stubby hands clasping other stubby hands, little sausage legs stuffed into white knee-high socks, a sea of tiny dark blue jackets and shorts and skirts, white shirts with bows and ties about the collars in school colors. They looked to be around six or seven years old, an age notable for unstoppable energy and obnoxious chattering.

“Oh. Fuck. Me.” If Asami could have disappeared into thin air, he would have, but that really wasn’t his style. As the children drew near the stone bench on which he was sitting and _trying_ to review the merger reports prepared for him by Kirishima that morning, he heard Suoh grunt in dismay behind him.

“Boss?” asked Suoh. The single word hung in the air, a balloon of expectation ready to pop.

Asami turned to give the big blond an inquiring look in return. His Chief-of-Security was indispensable in a fight—be it with guns, knives, fists, nunchucks, rocket launcher, you name it—but even the great Asami Ryuichi wouldn’t be able to get away with eradicating an entire army of first graders just because…well, just because. _He_ might find them as unappealing as a cockroach infestation, but the rest of the world had different ideas and there was no bridging the gap between his more evolved viewpoint and the opinions held by the common rabble.

“It’s fine,” he told Suoh regretfully, patting the side of his chest where his pistol nestled in the holster beneath his suit jacket. “If things get hairy, I can defend myself.”

Kids may be loud and hyperactive, but they aren’t hopelessly stupid, as these children proved to Asami that day. All it took was one look at the dark-haired gentleman glowering like a panther and the mountain-sized bodyguard next to him looking equally threatening and the children fell silent, giving both men a wide berth as they continued on up the walkway with whispers of “yakuza” on their lips. This made Asami snicker with glee. People always assumed he was yakuza. Puh-lease. Did he look like yakuza? He didn’t have a single tattoo on his pristine body.

The self-satisfied grin on his face faded just a little when he saw the children wend their way straight towards Takaba, who was now taking pictures of the gold-sheathed temple itself. He watched Takaba greet the kids as if they weren’t an invading horde bringing pestilence and plague in their wake, watched him pat them on their ridiculous round heads and then scamper about collecting maple leafs with them. At times like this, Asami felt himself cut in two. A part of him—the jaded, experienced part—wanted to run before it was too late. But there was another part of him—a part that lay deep and unexplored and which unnerved him beyond belief—that had been awakened and refused to remain dormant each and every time he looked into Takaba’s eyes. It was the voice that thrummed in his brain and in his heart, a voice that said “yes” and “I do” and “forever.”

***

“Oh my god, you guys _knew_?” Takaba shrieked. He and his best bros were standing outside a FamilyMart _conbini_ drinking canned coffee and eating pork buns. 

“Uh… _yeah_ ,” Kou replied, leaving the word “dummy” unspoken.

“B-but…how?” Takaba asked with his mouth full. “I mean, _I_ didn’t even know. How could you tell? _When_ could you tell?”

Takato jiggled little Hiroto-kun in his arms while the kid gnawed and drooled on his teething biscuit in stomach-turning fashion. “Mmmm…maybe after that New Year’s, when Asami threw you over his shoulder and carried you to his car. That kind of gave it away.” 

“After that,” Kou explained, “you always had that ‘I got banged into tomorrow’ look on your face.”

Well, damn it, Takaba wasn’t going to take that wildly accurate comment lying down. He shot back in his own defense, “How did you know _I_ wasn’t the one banging some hot chick?”

“First of all, you’ve never asked a girl out the entire time we’ve known you, and we’ve known you since forever.” Ever since Takato married and had a kid, he’d assumed the mantle of wisdom amongst the three childhood friends. “Second, you’re living with him, and third, you’ve always got at least one giant hickey on your neck.”

“And you never sit or stand still anymore,” Kou added, suddenly appearing like the observant one. “You’re always squirming or shifting because…well, you know…”

“Oh my god, that’s so not true. None of that’s true!” insisted Takaba. Then he realized that he was indeed shifting from one foot to the other, his hole still swollen and tender. He touched that spot under his jaw and, yeah, the skin was still raw from Asami going all Dracula on him. “I need to just…die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Takato said. “You love him, don’t you?”

Takaba almost choked on his BOSS No-Sugar Black, his attempt at a more adult drink. “Holy shit, don’t say that! You’re almost as bad as him!”

Kou leaned towards him in excitement. “Asami confessed to you? Did he get down on his knees? Did he cry?” 

“You need to stop watching those Korean soap operas, dude, ‘cause that’s not how it happens in real life,” Takaba scoffed.

“Oh, yeah?” Kou poked Takaba in the chest, smirking. “So tell us: how _did_ he confess?”

He couldn’t tell them. They were his best bros, but how could Takaba even begin to explain his life with Asami? Would they even believe the true stories? It all sounded like some crazy action movie with gunfights and explosions, casino cruise ships and stolen documents, handcuffs and helicopter crashes, deserted islands and the man of his dreams telling him, “Suki desu.”

Takaba took a last swig out of his can of coffee and crushed it (barely) in his hand before tossing it into the trash bin. “He didn’t confess, okay? I don’t even know if…forget it.” He gazed affectionately at little Hiroto-kun, who was offering his soggy teething biscuit to him and, without thinking, he reached out for the boy, asking his friend Takato, “Can I hold him again?”

“Sure,” replied Takato, passing his son over to Takaba. “You can babysit him anytime, too. In fact…how about this Saturday? It’s my wedding anniversary and I’m taking the old wife out to dinner. I don’t exactly trust Kou here…”

“Hey!” Kou objected, the front of his unwashed shirt stained with beer from a drinking party with some co-workers a week ago. “I’m practically Hiroto-kun’s uncle!”

“I’ll do it!” Takaba said, surprised by his own enthusiasm. The magazine hadn’t given him any good assignments lately and Asami always worked long hours late into the early morning, even on weekends, so it would be nice to have someone small and adorable to keep him company.

Takato was grateful, but he wasn’t reckless like Takaba. “Don’t you need to ask…you-know-who first?”

Takaba smiled down at Hiroto-kun, kissed him on the top of his little head. “He’ll say yes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, this fic is so sappy. Gomen nasai!!!


	6. Chapter 6

The last time Takaba babysat Hiroto-kun, the kid was just three months old and fairly immobile. Think: potato with a head and four flapping limbs. Now he was over six months old and, to Takaba’s horror, crawling like a shell-less tortoise on crack cocaine throughout Asami’s un-kid-proofed penthouse, motoring around on hands and knees while Takaba chased after him. For some reason, Hiroto-kun was intent on sticking his finger into every electrical socket in the walls. An hour into this nonsense and Takaba was exhausted. The only saving grace was that Asami was at the office; otherwise, Takaba could just imagine the smug sneer on the man’s face and the high and mighty “I told you so” spewing from his mouth. Fuck that shit. His friend Takato had given him a sheet of instructions—an abbreviated ‘How to Keep a Child Alive for 24 Hours' manual of sorts—and Takaba was relieved to see that it was now feeding time for the kid ( _yes!_ ), and after feeding time would be diaper-changing time ( _ew!_ ), but then after that would be bedtime ( _yippee!!!_ ). Takaba grabbed Hiroto-kun off the floor of the genkan, where he was chewing on one of Asami's Italian leather shoes, and strapped him into the bouncy seat in the living room. Then he went into the kitchen, where he had put the insulated bag of edible supplies that Takato had left him. There were several jars of baby food, some teething biscuits, some fruit juice, and some premeasured bottles of formula. The shitload of diapers and wet wipes and six changes of miniature clothing were in an Afro Ken backpack in the living room. It took no more than two minutes for Takaba to pop the lid on the jar of mashed peas and warm it up in the microwave, but that was plenty of time for Hiroto-kun to pull a Houdini act: he had not only escaped from the bouncy seat, he had disappeared altogether.

“Th’ fuck?” Takaba shrieked when he came out of the kitchen and found the living room devoid of child. Then he remembered he had a kid at home with him and quickly blurted out, _sans_ swear words, “I mean, come to uncle, Hiroto-kun, hehehe, time for dinner!” He tapped the little plastic spoon against the glass jar as if the sound would work like a dog whistle, searching the living room, then the dining room, then the hallways, now  _doubly_ grateful that Asami was at the office pistol-whipping subordinates and probably wouldn’t be home until 2:00 am at the earliest. By then, Hiroto-kun would be fast asleep…if only he could find the brat first. “I’ve got peas, Hiroto-kun!” called Takaba. “It’s your faaa-vorite!” He took a sniff of the jar of peas and almost gagged. “Ugh! No wonder he booked it.”

After fifteen minutes of futile searching, the worry crept into Takaba’s mind. Okay, the penthouse was obscenely large, probably a thousand times more spacious than the average domicile of a normal person living in Tokyo. The entirety of Takaba’s old apartment could fit into Asami’s living room alone. But, come on! How far could a six-month-old kid go? The door to Asami’s home office was closed—Asami always kept it locked when he was away—so that left the powder room in the hallway, the guest room, the master bedroom, and the en suite, aside from the living room, dining room, and kitchen. The secret sex room didn't count because only Asami had the access code to that. There was no Hiroto-kun. Takaba retraced his steps, cursing under his breath in case the kid was in hearing range, and inspected each room once more starting with the kitchen. Just to be sure, he opened the oven door, almost too relieved when he found it empty. He checked the lower kitchen cabinets, too, because he was thorough that way. When a third and fourth pass through the entire condo netted no kid, Takaba started to panic. How could this happen? He had offered to babysit Hiroto-kun so his buddy Takato could take his wife out for an anniversary dinner, telling his friend, “Just pick him up in the morning, wink-wink.” Takaba had _literally_ winked at his buddy. He’d read in some women’s magazine that couples rarely had sex after having a kid and he wanted to give Takato an opportunity for some much-needed uninterrupted banging. What a fool he was! What would he do when Takato showed up tomorrow morning…what the hell would Takaba say?

“Sorry, bro, but I lost your precious firstborn son.”

No, that wouldn’t do _at all_. Asami was always making him feel like a dumbass, teasing him mercilessly for his naïve lack of worldly _experience_ , for his failure to meet his own pie-in-the-sky goals, for his inability to serve as a worthy drinking partner. Well, fuck it, not everyone had an ironclad liver or chain-smoked like an industrial-grade chimney, or packed a gun beneath his bespoke suit. Falling short of Asami’s ridiculous standards was one thing, but letting down his own childhood friend was unforgiveable. He _had_ to find the kid!

“Hiroto-kun!” Takaba yelled. He didn’t care that he was beginning to sound hysterical. “Where are you, Hiroto-kun? Are you trying to kill your uncle? You better come out! It’s your goddamn dinner time!!!” 

Five, six, seven more passes through each room with no results had Takaba panting in fear. OMG!!! He realized he was still holding the jar of peas and mindlessly spooning the goopy grey gunk into his mouth to console himself as he whimpered, desperation sinking into the pit of his churning stomach. Should he call Takato to apologize for losing his kid? Should he call his mother and ask to crawl back into her womb so he wouldn’t have to deal with this nightmare? What had ever made him think he was equipped to take care of a child? Maybe it was the disgusting taste and texture of the pureed peas, but it was all coming back up his throat. He barely made it to the toilet before he vomited, heaving and retching into the ceramic bowl, the room spinning around like a tornado. He wiped his mouth on some toilet paper, then looked at his watch. It was only seven-thirty in the evening and that meant that he had totally fucked up only two hours into his babysitting duties. It was probably too early to wave the white flag of surrender, but he also had no idea how long a baby could survive untended by an adult. Hmm…let’s see…a human could go _days_ without food, less time without water, so…stay calm. He was Takaba Akihito; he had survived kidnapping on more than one occasion, gunfights, unsolicited sex, rough sex, sex with olive oil used as lube, sex with no lube, he’d had his mouth and ass filled with cock simultaneously…so…yeah, that was sex, too…what was with all the sex? He was _babysitting_ , for fuck’s sake!

“Hiroto-kun!” Takaba started screaming again, still draped over the toilet as he sat on the tiled floor of the powder room. He hauled himself up and stumbled into the living room and shouted, “I’m going to count to ten, and if you don’t come out, I’m going to spank the shit out of you!” Did that make him guilty of child abuse? He didn’t care. He counted one to nine, and then it became nine-and-a-quarter, nine-and-a-third, nine-and-a-half…what the hell, _fractions_? If Hiroto-kun was unable to comprehend advanced math concepts, then surely he could understand the very clear-cut threat of a spanking.

An hour later, Takaba caved in and called Asami. Why? Because Asami was the devil and Takaba had already prayed to numerous gods and they weren’t paying him any heed and he figured he wasn’t in the position to pick and choose which supernatural powers could save his ass at this point. Unfortunately, it was Kirishima who answered the phone. 

“Where’s Asami?” Takaba asked without bothering to extend even the most minimal greeting. “I need to talk to him.” 

“Asami-sama is busy,” Kirishima replied.

When no further explanation was forthcoming, Takaba was forced to insist again, “Just put me through. This is an emergency.”

“Oh? What kind of emergency? Are you in jail or something?”

“I’m not in jail, megane! Sheesh, it was just that _one time_. Quit judging me!” That Kirishima, always rubbing his nose in the shit and acting all condescending. It wasn’t even his fault he had been thrown in the slammer for coming to the defense of a helpless old man getting robbed by hooligans. He should have been rewarded for his good deed, maybe gotten a Good Citizenry medal from the mayor or something, but _noooo_ , he was hauled off to the police station where he sat in a cell stinking of urine and possibly feces before Kirishima showed up to bail him out. What came after was even worse: the silent car ride back to the penthouse, facing Asami at the door, that disapproving stare ripping his ego to shreds and shrinking him down to a two inch tall idiot. Dang. Takaba straightened his shoulders, ready to demand to speak to Asami when he heard a soft click followed by a flat dial tone. “Hey!” Did Kirishima just hang up on him? “Stupid Glasses Guy!” shouted Takaba. Who else could he call for help? Kou? Shit, it was Saturday night and that meant that Kou would be at his second job. Kou’s day job as a programmer for a small animation studio didn’t cover his hefty bar bills, so he had taken on extra work on the weekends as a host at one of the clubs in Shinjuku catering to older women, where he could combine his love of alcohol with his love of the female gender. 

“It’s like shooting fish in a barrel,” Kou claimed. “These older chicks all have rich husbands who can’t even get it up anymore. They’re just happy to have you _look_ at them, they’re so hungry for attention. After a few drinks, they’re as pretty as the young ones, I’m telling ya!”

The thought of Kou sitting in a darkened club slugging down sake with flirtatious fifty-year-old housewives made Takaba feel oddly jealous. And depressed. It was Saturday night for crying out loud! Instead of being at a club or a bar or at some juicy photo op, he was home alone gagging on peas and unable to locate a missing baby. There was something deeply wrong with that picture. He slumped down onto the floor in front of the leather sectional like a crumpled wad of used tissue, a defeated wad of used tissue. He rubbed the soles of his bare feet through the thick pile of the Australian sheepskin throw rug, letting its soft texture soothe him as he wriggled his toes before shoving both hands down past the elastic waistband of his joggers and palmed himself. There was nothing overtly sexual in the act. It was just what guys did to comfort themselves, like a baby sucking on a thumb…dick in hand, same thing, because he was badly in need of comfort at the moment. He gave his flaccid cock a few squeezes, then cupped his balls, rolled them around a bit in his hands, even let his fingers brush against his hole before he sighed forlornly and scratched at his pubes. He was so _not_ turned on, not like this, not without a certain domineering bastard having his way with him, manhandling him into some humiliating position, all spread out and leaking from too many orifices…

“So, what’s the emergency?”

With a full-body twitch, Takaba jolted awake to the sight of Asami standing over him in the living room. He was dressed in his customary three-piece suit and tie, the same outfit he had been wearing when he had left for the office that afternoon, except he had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first button on his shirt. In his arms was Hiroto-kun and the two of them were staring down at Takaba, who had drooled all over himself in his sleep. 

“A-Asa…Hiroto-kun!” Takaba wiped the spit from his chin and jumped to his feet, limbs flailing in all directions. Oh god, he was _such_ a total spaz. “What time is it?” The clock on the wall read nine-thirty. “What are you doing home so early? And where…where did you find Hiroto-kun?”

“Heh.” Asami promptly handed the kid over to Takaba and unbuttoned his suit jacket, making a beeline for the wet bar. “Is that why you called the office? Because you couldn’t find the baby?” There was an uncharacteristic chuckle from Asami as he poured himself a drink and he kept laughing even as he took a sip of his whisky. The angry scowl on Takaba’s face only made him double over, laughter shaking his broad shoulders.

“What did Glasses Guy tell you?” asked Takaba, his face burning with embarrassment. He hugged Hiroto-kun to his chest, his heart racing with too many things at once: relief, shame, confusion. “Did he tell you I was in jail?” 

“No, you dummy.” Asami took off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of one of the dining room chairs. “But he did say you sounded hysterical.”

“That bastard! Oops.” Takaba made to cover Hiroto-kun’s ears. “I was so _not_ hysterical! That guy exaggerates like crazy.”

Asami lit a Dunhill and inhaled slowly, deeply, indulgently. He was enjoying this immensely. “Seriously, Takaba, you are a horrible liar.” He motioned to the dining room table, where a large take-out container of sushi and sashimi sat. “Have you eaten yet? I thought we could have lunch together.” Right, ‘lunch’ for Asami, a man who never rose from bed before twelve noon, was anytime between seven and ten at night. “Or would you prefer to finish your jar of peas?” 

Fucking hell! “That was for Hiroto-kun,” Takaba said.

“Funny how all those peas ended up on _your_ shirt. I didn’t find a lick of food on the baby. In fact, he was crying with hunger when I found him.” Asami took another sip, another drag, calmly watching Takaba make an ‘O’ with his mouth.

“Wh-where did you find him?” asked Takaba, his voice small and sheepish. He cast his gaze somewhere over Asami’s left shoulder; he couldn’t look the man in the eye. Try as he might, Takaba had failed to do the things he had set out to do: to be successful, to be a man, to show Asami that he was worthy of all the things he gave him without even asking. But in the end, it always came down to this: Asami bailing him out of trouble, Asami swooping in and saving his sorry ass. How could he ever _earn_ his love if this is how it was, if he couldn’t make his way in the world and stand on his own two feet?

Asami paused, contemplating the red-faced boy clutching a child so desperately in his arms. Takaba had always refused Asami’s overtures, his offers to buy him this or that—clothes, jewelry, even an apartment of his own—and it had taken Asami’s unrelenting stubbornness to convince Takaba to stay. In the beginning, it had been fun to pursue him every time he ran off, it was all a part of the game. The chase was as exciting as the actual conquest. And then it developed into an obsession almost, this need to possess, to own, to have, to know that no one else would ever come between them. Asami wanted no other; no one else would do. Was this love? Whatever it was, it was driving Asami insane, and the look on Takaba’s face right now, that look of vulnerability that he always tried so hard to hide, it made Asami want to give him the world. He set his cigarette in the ashtray, his glass on the credenza, and approached Takaba slowly, like a wolf not wanting to startle his prey. When he got near enough, he placed an arm around Takaba’s shoulder, tilted his chin up between his thumb and forefinger to make him meet his gaze. Then he gave Hiroto-kun a gentle pinch on a chubby cheek.

“I found him under our bed,” Asami said. He fought and failed to prevent the smirk from gracing his lips, and the genuine surprise lighting Takaba’s face made Asami slip his hand behind Takaba’s head, his fingers grasping his thick, silky hair just a little too hard before he pressed his lips to his, his tongue taking hot possession of Takaba’s open wet mouth. “Imagine that…a baby under our bed.” He kissed into his boy again, squeezed him in his arms and it was only the insistent slap-slap-slap of Hiroto-kun’s little hands on their faces that finally made them break apart. The kid was stuffing his fists in his mouth now, drooling and wailing and very obviously demanding to be fed. “You’re not the only one who’s hungry,” Asami grumbled. His cock was hard in his trousers, but it would have to wait.

“Asami.” Takaba grabbed his arm before Asami could go into the kitchen to bring out Hiroto-kun’s bag of baby food jars. “I…um…thanks for—”

“You can thank me after we eat,” Asami told him, “in the bedroom.” At the door to the kitchen he called over his shoulder to Takaba, his lips quirked, eyes flashing, “And make sure you call me _daddy_.”

________

In case you don't know, Afro Ken is a rainbow-haired Sanrio character. Check him out: [Afro Ken](https://www.google.com/search?q=Afro+Ken&client=safari&rls=en&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=ecSrqQEGckGgKM%253A%252COEfMEGEoIba1yM%252C_&usg=AI4_-kSBUBKIv4Iwb0TYtP76rxHuhRUHag&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjW9u3enJngAhUvTd8KHYQZC_QQ9QEwBXoECAMQDg#imgrc=ecSrqQEGckGgKM:)

I collected a bunch of Afro Ken stuff when I was last in Tokyo. Isn't he _kawaii_?

 


	7. Chapter 7

Most couples had standard pet names for their other half— _sweetheart_ , _honey_ , _darling_ —endearments spoken to express the affection shared between two people and to strengthen the bond of love and devotion. Yes, your normal, average couple uttered such words, but Asami and Takaba were anything but average as a couple and at least one of them was far from normal. Takaba usually called Asami _pervert_ or _old man_ or _geezer_ to supplement his other go-to phrases, like _selfish bastard_ and _world-class jerk-off_. Asami would match Takaba, verbal slap for verbal slap, by referring to his feisty lover (even in public!) as _my hungry little whore_ or _my shameless cockslut_ or, the most embarrassing of all, _my cute little Akihito_.

“ _Cute_ is for goddamn _kittens_!” Takaba had protested, and then he was made to regret that outburst when Asami began calling him _my cute little kitten_ in front of Kuroda Shinji, Asami’s best friend from his school days and the only person Takaba had ever heard refer to Asami by his first name, and on a regular basis at that. Kirishima and Suoh, Asami’s closest associates at work and men Asami trusted with his life, never called him Ryuichi. Even Feilong, who had status, power, wealth, and was still madly in love with Asami, didn’t dare call him Ryuichi. Kuroda, though, would not only call him Ryuichi without hesitation, he’d go one step further into super duper casual mode and shorten it to _Ryu._  Who was he, a former lover or something? A brother from another mother? Kuroda, who claimed to be a prosecutor to Takaba’s continuing disbelief, would drop by the penthouse at all hours of the night without even phoning ahead and address the most dangerous crime lord in Japan as Ryu or even (gulp!) Ryu-kun. As bad as that was, Asami would compound such flagrant flouting of decorum by calling Takaba “watashi no kawaii koneko” every time Kuroda visited.

“Make us some tea, my cute little kitten,” Asami would say with way too much glee, knowing how humiliating it was for a Japanese male over the age of five—that is, Takaba Akihito—to be equated with an adorable, furry, four-legged feline in front of a man who was on a first name basis with Asami. How utterly emasculating! 

“Make it yourself!” Takaba would retort. “I’m not your fucking waifu!” Well, he sort of _was_ , ‘cause he _did_ do most of the cooking and cleaning and even wore a French maid’s outfit for Asami a few times and well, he _did_ put out for him on a nightly basis…argh! Takaba could only stomp out of the living room and hide in the spare bedroom which served as his ‘office’ to pass the time playing video games, but not before enduring the snickering that was sure to follow him out of the room from both older men. “Dickheads!” he’d shout as he slammed the door shut.

Demeaning people in word and deed was a skill that Asami had mastered long ago, but Takaba was no slouch when it came to defending himself and that was a _huge_ turn-on for a sadistic bastard like Asami. Every time Takaba fought back (and lost, of course), every time he reacted with defiance and sass, it made the blood head south in Asami’s body, the brain in his balls demand satisfaction. He wanted to break him in the filthiest ways, this lovely boy, break and bend him to his will, hold him down and fuck into him, wreck his ass and make him scream his name and cry the most beautiful tears of agony and ecstasy, and then do it over and over again until they were both a sweaty mess on the ruined sheets.

“Say it,” Asami growled into Takaba’s ear. He had Takaba on his hands and knees in front of him on their bed as he knelt behind him, the entire length of his cock sunk balls deep in the younger man’s stretched hole. Takaba had gorged on enough sushi to feed three people and Asami was a little worried it would all come back out his throat with the way he was pounding him into the mattress. He stopped thrusting and inched forward and higher up Takaba’s back instead, changing the angle of his cock so he was rubbing mercilessly against Takaba’s sweet spot.

“Oh god!” Takaba’s guttural shout was muffled as he collapsed onto his elbows and face planted into the duvet, his hands clenching into fists as he bit down on the silken fabric and _chewed_.

A low rumble of laughter accompanied the beads of sweat rolling down Asami’s temples. “I know I’m your _god_ , Akihito, but what did I tell you to call me tonight?” He pulled out slowly, all the way out, his cock popping free and giving Asami an obscene view of Takaba’s quivering hole. “What a pretty color,” Asami grunted approvingly, hooking his thumbs just inside the rim and keeping Takaba stretched open before slamming his dick back into him and ripping a scream from Takaba’s throat. 

“Ungh! The baby!” cried Takaba. He lifted his head off the mattress—he was seeing double by now, but he could still make out little Hiroto-kun’s blanket covered form nestled in the Fold-N-Go portable bassinet in the corner of the room. “We’re going to wake the baby.”

Asami cast a quick glance at the sleeping child and then landed a swift slap on Takaba’s right ass cheek. “Wrong answer.” When Takaba merely groaned unintelligibly, he slapped the other cheek, his impatience rising in his groin. “Bad boy. Such a bad, bad boy.” Asami yanked Takaba upright and brought him down against his chest as he leaned his back against the upholstered headboard. He hooked his hands behind Takaba’s knees so he could slam him down onto his cock reverse-cowboy in his lap. “I’m going to tear you apart if you don’t behave, baby boy,” Asami threatened against Takaba’s ear. “Now, _say it_.”

“Don’t call me baby…not with H-Hiro…ungh…ahh…f-f-fuuuck…” Asami was jackhammering up into him and Takaba couldn’t think straight, his teeth knocking together from the strength and tempo of Asami’s thrusts. He felt split in two, the slick slide of Asami’s thick cock burning a path in and out of him. Any minute now his ass was going to burst into flames. When Asami reached around with one hand and began pumping his dick in his fist, he forgot all about Hiroto-kun being in the room with them and started keening to the ceiling.

Once again, Asami ordered, “Say it.”

And Takaba whimpered hoarsely, tears dotting the corners of his tightly shut eyes, “D-daddy…” 

Asami’s hands were all over him, kneading his ass and his balls while his other hand continued to stroke his cock and all the while he kept thrusting into him and demanding, “Again, Akihito. Say it again.”

“Daddy…daddy…ggyhaa…uhn…da…daddy…fuck me, daddy…d-daddy!” Asami’s thumb rubbing across his slit brought it all to a head and Takaba came with a throaty wail, tears streaming down his cheeks as he shot all over himself, toes curled, abs and thighs trembling. He felt Asami’s hips stutter, his body go rigid beneath him, and goddamn if he didn’t feel Asami’s cock swell and harden even further as the man bit down on his neck, sucking fiercely on his tender skin. There was a split second of silence as Asami stilled completely, then Takaba felt his cock twitching inside him, the pulses of hot wetness as Asami emptied himself in several violent spasms before they both fell to ragged panting.

“Good boy, such a good little boy,” Asami praised in a mumble as he lifted Takaba off his cock with a wet _schlurp_ and rolled them both onto their sides. They were sticky with sweat, saliva, lube, and cum, but Asami merely threw the covers over them and pulled Takaba closer against his chest and kissed into the back of his head.  He had planned on going back to the office after their meal and sex—it was only midnight and he often worked until three or four in the morning—but he was finding it harder and harder to tear himself away from Takaba, especially when he had him in his arms like this, so warm and boneless and smelling of their body fluids mixed together. In the past, he could never abide sharing a bed with someone he had just fucked; he couldn’t be intimate with someone and tolerate their continued presence afterwards. It was too suffocating, especially if that person got it into their head that there might be a chance for a relationship down the road. As if!

Asami had told Feilong once, “I’m not your daddy.” Damn straight. He had no time or inclination to fill the hole in Feilong’s heart or ass. The dude was beautiful, no doubt about that, but he was needy and saddled with some serious ‘issues’ regarding his family, and that was pretty much kryptonite to someone like Asami, a man who couldn’t stand even the barest whiff of clinginess from anyone. Experience had taught him that it was always best to nip these things in the bud, before they became full-blown headaches. “You’re not my type,” Asami had stated coldly, knowing full well how cutting that remark would be to a young man who was not only emotionally vulnerable at the time but also crushing on him like mad.

 _You’re not my type_. Feilong wasn’t his ‘type’ personality-wise, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t physically stunning, and it certainly didn’t prevent Asami from having a little fun with him, seducing him just because he could, like a cat playing with a mouse before crushing its neck. He had kissed and fondled Feilong—a mere twenty years old at the time and ‘untouched’ save for the abuse he regularly endured at the hands of his jealous older stepbrother—licked his nipples and sucked his cock, made him cum and cry his name because Asami was an egotisical bastard at heart and nothing fed his narcissism more than to make a hot mess out of someone so naïve and confused.

That rather cruel and heartless tryst came back to bite Asami in the ass years later after he met Takaba, and it took an exchange on Feilong’s casino cruise ship that went horribly wrong to make Asami realize that he couldn’t play with fire the way he used to, not if it put Takaba’s life in danger. The moment he thought he had lost Takaba—shot by one of Mikhail’s goons and lying crumpled and motionless on the deck of the ship—was the moment he realized he was not in control of his own heart anymore. His heart was now in the hands of a foul-mouthed brat and Asami Ryuichi was the one in a position of emotional vulnerability for the first time in his life. That Takaba never lost his stubborn I-do-things-my-own-way-and-you-can’t-tell-me-otherwise attitude only increased his desirability, and every attempt to warn him off of trouble only made the boy go sniffing for it all the more. It was infuriating, but equally intoxicating, this spirit in him that couldn’t be dampened, destroyed, or diminished by anyone. Takaba didn’t have a hundred yen to his name but he was the most priceless thing in Asami’s life. Money couldn’t buy a boy like him. Even Asami, as proud and egomaniacal as he was, could admit that.

Tonight, though…he wasn’t sure what had come over him. Maybe it was arriving back at the penthouse and finding Takaba passed out on the living room floor, the front of his T-shirt dotted with the same grey substance as the weird mixture in the baby food jar sitting on the coffee table in front of him, Takaba’s face scrunched up in worry even as he slept. Maybe it was hearing the thin wails of a baby and tracing the sound to their bedroom, where he got down on his hands and knees to lift the linen bed skirt and found a pair of teary eyes staring back at him. He had reached under the bed and pulled Hiroto-kun out and was immediately disgusted by the snot dripping from the child’s nose and running down his drooling mouth and chin. Asami’s first inclination was to drop the kid or toss him out the window, but something about the solid weight of the tyke in his arms—the unstoppable _life_ thrumming inside a tiny body—made him tamp down his murderous, anti-kid tendencies. A more primal instinct took over and without thinking he reached for his handkerchief and wiped the kid’s face, muttering a bunch of nonsensical shit, god knows what he said to Hiroto-kun, stuff too inane to repeat. When the child grabbed onto his tie and held on tightly, tucking his face into Asami’s neck, Asami found himself patting the boy gently as he walked them back out to the living room, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt and marveling at how silky soft the child’s hair felt against his chin.

It was all so fucking odd, the fact that he actually liked the feel of a child in his arms for those few minutes. It had felt the same the other time he had held Hiroto-kun—weirdly satisfying, not that he would ever admit it aloud—but tonight he had let the weirdness seep into his head and maybe into his heart, where as yet unidentified demons and desires still lurked. Being called “daddy” had never been on his wish list before, either in or out of bed. He could think of a million other things he’d rather be called when it came to dirty talk, and “daddy” was not one of them…except, now it was. To hear that word tumbling from Takaba's lips was like a drug he’d never sampled before but, shit, one taste and he was hooked for life. He was doomed and damned to hell, what _kind_ of hell exactly was a mystery, but as long as Takaba descended with him, he didn’t care how deep they went if they were together. 

He waited until he heard Takaba’s breathing even out, the soft rhythmic snores, before planting a kiss on his bare shoulder and whispering, “My sweet baby boy. Daddy loves you.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> American music and fashion from the '80s is hot again in Harajuku, so that's my inspiration for the songs that are listed at the end of this chapter.
> 
> My other inspiration for this chapter is Taemin’s newest release, Want, not just because Taemin is once again channeling Michael Jackson, but he’s back to being blond and I could only imagine sweet Aki looking that super sexy in Asami’s eyes.

He had been a virgin when he first met Asami. For a man like Asami Ryuichi, however, virginity was merely a problem to be fixed at worst, or a juicy fruit to be plucked at best, and Takaba had found himself in the position to experience both scenarios and everything in between when he had his virgin status so rudely altered and ripped to shreds in a literal sense by the King of Perverts himself. Nobody had ever touched him ‘back there’ because, for fuck’s sake, wasn’t that a Do Not Enter zone? Although, in all honesty, Takaba couldn’t even say he’d gotten much action ‘up front’ either before. There _was_ that one time a girl had groped him at a club, but she was completely trashed, so that hand on his dick was probably meant for someone else, and then he’d been slapped by a few other girls at various other clubs, but both Takato and Kou insisted that getting slapped didn’t count as foreplay. Boy, oh boy, were they wrong! After a year of close encounters with Asami, getting slapped was most definitely foreplay. Just thinking about the palms of those big hands spanking him into boneless submission was giving Takaba a chub and, right now, he needed to get a chub as quickly as possible because he was due in his 'booth' in five minutes.

Math hadn't been Takaba’s _thing_ in school, but he could crunch the numbers enough to know that it would take him at least six months of hard labor at the robot restaurant encased in a Gundum outfit like some medieval knight in a suit of armor, just to make a fraction of what he could earn in one night shaking his booty at a ‘specialty’ club in Shibuya, and possibly giving private lap dances for horny old rich farts if they liked him enough. Even Kou didn’t pull in that much as a vanilla host, and Kou was a very attractive young dude with a sparkling, appropriately dim-witted, non-threatening personality that older women found so endearing. Okay, wearing a Gundum outfit might sound cool, but the reality was a whole other kettle of fish. Takaba had sweated like a pig and passed out from heat and dehydration before his first shift had even ended, so…not cool. Besides, the manager had told him he was fired for such lack of stamina, an ongoing ‘issue’ he needed to tackle according to Asami, so he traded in his Gundum outfit for a G-string with a white lace pouch, which weighed a whole lot less and enabled him to show off his creamy, hairless skin, one of his best attributes if not for all the love bites. That’s what the strategically placed white lace straps were for, thought Takaba as he smiled into the full-length mirror in the cramped dressing room, enjoying a preview of what his ‘clients’ would see once he stepped onto the raised dais with its shiny metal pole, a dais which spun around slowly so the men sitting in private rooms behind one-way mirrors could view his performance from all angles while jacking it.

On most nights, he was assigned one of the catwalks out front in the main room, but things could get awfully dicey if customers were drunk and therefore too handsy. He’d had his skimpy outfits torn to pieces too many times and, yeah, there wasn’t a whole lotta fabric between his junk and the prying eyes of the crowd, but c’mon! He wasn’t going to give it away for free. It took him three weeks of shimmying and shaking his ass to generate enough popularity to be assigned a private booth, where he would be paid triple what he normally made on the catwalk, not counting the fee he would earn if one of the clients requested a private lap dance afterwards. Ka-ching!

The walls of the small dressing room vibrated with the thumping bass of the music playing in the club, and then the door flew open and one of the handlers grunted, “Takaba, room number three, you’re on. Move your ass!” Takaba gave his body one final dusting of glittery powder, sucked in a deep breath, rearranged his junk behind the pouch of his G-string so that his balls weren’t falling out (like in that inadvertently X-rated Christmas postcard he had innocently posed for) and walked quickly down the narrow maze of hallways to a door with a brass number three on it. He could do this. He had passed the audition for _this_ job without even having to ‘put out’ for it. Ugh. Club managers could be the worst, and the memory of that hairy ape named Sakazaki who had demanded a blowjob in return for information still sat like a rotting ton of bricks in Takaba’s gut. The only thing that made it bearable was that a blowjob really didn’t count as sex, right? Sheesh. A year of carnal pleasures with Asami and a blowjob no longer qualified as real sex…how warped had his reality become? As warped as the reasoning that enabled Takaba to justify his current actions: he needed to make fast money in order to buy Asami a Patek Philippe for his birthday, which was less than three months away. Asami didn’t own any Patek Philippe watches, and they were supposedly a luxury item, at least that’s what Feilong told him when Takaba texted him for advice. Feilong was a lunatic, but he had good taste and gave saner gift ideas than Suoh, who had muttered, “Boss could use a new Beretta,” _as if_ Takaba would ever purchase an illegal firearm! “He can get his own stupid guns!” Takaba had said, and then Kirishima had suggested, “Why don’t you stick a rose up your ass and tie a ribbon around your cock and call it a day? Surely that’s within your budget.”

That Glasses Guy! So mean! It wasn’t his fault that his rival at work, Mitarai, was getting all the choice assignments at the magazine. Mitarai hadn’t been stuck in some godforsaken monastery in the middle of fucking nowhere for weeks and weeks on end. Well, he’d show the world that Takaba Akihito was a man to be reckoned with; he would prevail over any and all obstacles! He’d make good on that boast of his that he would be a huge success in the not-so-distant future—or at least before he was old and grey and his cock had shriveled into a tiny desiccated limp stump—so successful that _he_ would be the one taking care of Asami and maybe, just maybe, _he_ would be the one topping for once, goddamn it! But, first things first. Rome wasn’t conquered in one day.

Takaba stepped onto the raised dais, Kirishima’s snarky comments still ringing in his ears and distracting him enough to catch his toes on the edge of the platform and trip ungracefully forward. Thankfully, he was able to avoid a full-on faceplant by grabbing onto the pole and pulling himself onto his knees as the dais began turning. Takaba wriggled his ass, hoping his seductive movements would distract from his not-so-sexy entrance, and shimmied up the pole and onto his feet. Kou had helped him design his music playlist for the night and that is what saved him, that awesome funky American music from the '70s and ‘80s that he and his best bros loved so much. Ah, that glorious night of dancing on his own birthday not so long ago came to mind, when Asami had swept him up in his arms and twirled him around like a princess! A wave of heat crashed through his body and Takaba shivered with excitement as he watched himself undulate his hips in the mirrored windows of the small darkened room, black lights aimed on him and making all the white lace _glow_. He looked as alluring as a prostitute on display in Amsterdam’s Red Light District, and, shit, he was getting so turned on watching himself dance, now touching and pinching his own nipples as he rubbed the cleft of his ass up and down the pole, now palming his junk as he grabbed the pole to steady himself with his other hand while he bent low at the waist, the firm globes of his ass cheeks on display. He spun around the pole, catching it behind the backs of his knees and flipped himself upside down before lowering himself onto the shag carpet of the dais and crawling on his hands and knees, then humping the carpet itself before rolling over and spreading his legs, his hands running up the insides of his thighs to touch his semi-rigid cock, the head just barely peeking from the pouch and saying a friendly “hello!” He imagined Asami watching him, those amber eyes like laser beams setting his skin on fire. Would Asami be pissed that other men had their eyes on him, too? Or would he be turned on, like that time Asami had watched him blowing Feilong while he took him from behind, those two crazy fucks using him for their own twisted pleasure? The more realistic thoughts about Asami spanking the shit out of him for debasing himself like this for money… _fuuuuck_ …if Asami knew he was doing this, would he be mad? Probably. The man was a jealous, controlling bastard if there ever was one, but at least it would be money _earned_ rather than just given for nothing. Takaba might be financially strapped, but he had pride, loads and loads of pride, and he wouldn’t let anyone, not even Asami, make him feel useless and cheap.

It wasn’t just the watch that Takaba wanted to give Asami. This year he’d actually been invited to the celebratory birthday dinner—a catered affair held in one of the ballrooms of one of Asami’s hotels in Tokyo where his numerous clients and business associates and underworld cronies could bow and scrape and pay homage to the man himself—and he was slated to perform a musical number as part of the evening’s festivities. There were several professional acts lined up for the program already, but Takaba didn’t plan on singing, though he loved karaoke and wasn’t shy about his vocal abilities. No, he wanted to serenade Asami with the most romantic song in the modern era—that song from the movie _Titanic_ —except the lyrics were too damn embarrassing for a Japanese man to say aloud. No problem. He’d simply perform the song on his recorder, which he still had from his fourth grade music classes. That way he’d be able to convey those super sappy sentiments without actually saying a word.

“Absolutely not!” Kirishima had told him when he asked to be slated as part of the ‘entertainment’ for the evening.

“Who put you in charge?” Takaba had protested. 

“Asami-sama, of course. Just because he invited you as a _guest_ doesn’t mean you get to perform some stupid musical number.”

Takaba had stamped his sneakered foot on the polished terrazzo floor in front of Kirishima’s desk. “You’re just jealous I get to go to the party!”

“Jealous?” Kirishima’s face had been _purple_ , he was so apoplectic. “Are you insane?”

The yelling had brought Asami out of his office, though, and Takaba had grinned from ear-to-ear when Asami had told Kirishima, “Let him perform for me.” 

 _Let him perform for me_. Asami’s low baritone voice was thrumming through his body as he danced. The lyrics sung in English meandered through Takaba’s mind, a word here and there grasped with comprehension and _oh_ , how his body responded. As he watched himself in the mirrors, he imagined Asami sitting on the other side, his amber eyes _on_ him and smoldering, a cigarette held between his lips, curls of smoke seeping from his nostrils. _Watch me_ … _see me_ … _fuck me with your eyes_ …Each song grew progressively sexier, hotter, more lascivious, until Takaba was palming himself through his G-string, a very obvious erection tenting the thin fabric, nay, bursting its limited boundaries! His nipples were hard and dotting his chest like the loveliest pink pebbles. Holy hell, he loved this job and he’d only had five shots of vodka for liquid courage beforehand!

When his set ended, the manager—a greasy gnome with a terrible comb over and teeth like a badly weathered fence—was waiting for him in the hallway as he exited the booth.

“What’s wrong with your face?” Takaba asked. The man looked like he had been run over by a truck and then put through a wood chipper.

“Never mind,” the manager muttered, an ice pack held to his swollen jaw. “You’re wanted in A3. Don’t keep him waiting.”

 _A3_. That was one of the private rooms where lap dances were given. Sweet. One of his clients had requested a private lap dance, which meant a shitload of yen in his pocket.

“Great!” Takaba replied. He skipped back to the dressing room, practically unhinged with excitement. If he could build up his clientele and keep them coming back for more, then he’d be able to buy that watch in time for Asami’s birthday bash. He toweled off quickly, sprayed on some more deodorant, and changed into a tiny bedazzled tank top and little boy briefs in shiny silver lamé fabric. Damn, he looked adorable! Before heading over to room A3, he grabbed a cherry flavored lollipop from the bowl sitting on the table, ripping off the wrapping and sucking the candy into his mouth. Yum. The sweet flavor made his mouth water and he needed to get those salivary glands working if his ‘client’ expected some, uh, lip action. “Probably some impotent old yakuza boss who can’t get it up for his wife anymore,” thought Takaba in the final seconds before he knocked tentatively on the door to room A3.

“Come in,” came a deep and strangely familiar voice.

Takaba opened the door and closed it gently behind him, locking it with a click as he kept his eyes politely cast to the floor. That was one of the unspoken rules adhered to in these kinds of encounters: do not look at the ‘client’ until told to do so. He heard the sound of someone getting up from a chair and walking toward him and all Takaba could think was: please don’t let him be seventy years old with saggy balls and liver spots. The heady scent of expensive cologne made his pulse quicken, but he forced himself to keep his gaze on his own slippered feet. He knew that scent, that scent that forced a deep inhale of breath as his body shivered for _more_ , but he wouldn’t cave in. Instead, Takaba sucked harder on the lollipop in his mouth, let the sweet cherry goodness trickle down his throat. He sucked on that lollipop as if his life depended on it. A hand crossed his field of vision as it grasped the looped handle of the lollipop and yanked it abruptly from his mouth with a wet slurping sound.

“Turn around,” the man said, “and bend over.”

His legs felt like jelly, his face an inferno melting his skin, but Takaba managed to turn around as ordered. He placed his hands on the door to steady himself, and then he bent at the waist even as he shook from head to toe. He wouldn’t be giving a lap dance, not right now at least, maybe later…he felt his briefs pulled down roughly, and then fingers parting his ass cheeks before something round and slippery was shoved up his ass. The lollipop!  Takaba smacked his forehead on the door several times, he was so very fucked.

“Did you think I didn’t know what you were doing?” Asami asked.

What could he say except the truth? “It’s not what you think,” Takaba stammered. “I’m buying you a birthday gift. Ah!” The lollipop was being thrust slowly in and out of his ass and then it was gone and replaced with a wet tongue. “ _Fuuuck!!!_ ” 

As much as Asami disliked the taste of sugary foods, he was a glutton for the sweet taste of Takaba Akihito. “Strawberry, raspberry, all those good things…” Asami murmured as he went to town on Takaba’s dripping hole.

And then the tongue was gone, too, and Takaba was left quivering with need as he panted into the door.

“Come, Akihito, _ride me_.”

Ever so slowly, Takaba turned around, still leaning against the door for support because his knees were like wet noodles, to see Asami sitting on a chair with his trousers undone and his cock lying heavy and huge against the white of his dress shirt, his big hands gripping the arms of the chair: the king on his throne. It was a vision of such beauty Takaba almost went blind for a second, the image of Asami’s glorious erection burning Takaba’s retinas right inside his skull. When his focus returned after several hard blinks, he noticed that both of Asami’s knuckles were bruised and bloodied.

“Did you…did you beat up the manager?”

“Maybe.” Asami held up one of his hands, beckoning to Takaba as he pressed a button on a remote control and the first strains of a song were piped into the room. “Come, my cute little kitten. Dance on my cock."

 ________

These are the songs that Takaba dances to in the booth, in order:

[Cameo, Candy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_1Dp43atWHE)

[Taylor Dayne, Tell It To My Heart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ud6sU3AclT4)

[Shannon, Let the Music Play](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCmkPDTzG2E)

And this is the song that Asami wants Takaba to "dance" to in his lap: [Donna Summer, I Feel Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=68QnnYLYKrk)

I Feel Love is from the late '70s, but Asami knows his fuck music.

And this is the MV for Taemin's latest release: [Want](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-OfOkiVFmhM)

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

It was one of those rare, quiet evenings at home for Liu Feilong, just him and his opium pipe in the privacy of his bedroom suite. For once, there were no squabbles to settle with other syndicate bosses, no political palms to grease, no assassinations to set in motion, no smarmy advances to fend off from that Russian playboy, Mikhail Arbatov. It was the typhoon season and, like a cat thumbing its nose at the stormy weather, Feilong stretched out his slender limbs in a graceful sprawl across his divan, slowly getting toasted on his drug of choice. Outside his penthouse windows, Hong Kong sparkled like a treasure chest stuffed with jewels, the city aglitter in the night through the torrential gusts of wind and rain. His mind wandered lazily to thoughts about Tao. The boy was growing up fast and Feilong could see it now: his adopted son would be tall, lanky, and a complete airhead. Though he was on the cusp of adolescence, Tao still liked to brush Feilong’s hair each morning and each night, still liked to serve him tea in his room, still liked to run his personal errands for him in town. Such sweetness didn’t exactly inspire fear and Feilong had given up any hope of having Tao inherit the family ‘business.’ That was probably a good thing; a life of crime was not conducive to longevity or happiness. More than anything, Feilong wanted Tao to have the things he had longed for himself—the unconditional love of a father—and what he continued to lack—a happy, fulfilling life. The kid wanted to play _baseball_ of all things, which wouldn’t be the end of the world except that Tao was, uh, lacking in athletic talent. Even Feilong could see it through the rose colored glasses he always wore when it came to the boy. Oh well. He’d indulge him regardless of his shortcomings. Isn’t that what all good parents do, indulge the hopes and dreams of their children?

His sentimental drug-induced reverie was brought to an abrupt halt when his phone rang in his lap. The name on the caller ID was enough to make one of Feilong’s delicate eyebrows take flight, longstanding resentment instantly clashing with giddy teen girl excitement. _Calm down_ , he told himself, _it’s only that asshole_. And then, _It’s about time he bothered to call_. Five seconds and one mind-numbing hit later, he swiped his thumb across his iPhone and warbled with feigned nonchalance, “To what do I owe this—”

“Just cut the shit, Feilong,” came Asami’s curt reply. 

“My, my,” Feilong gasped, taken aback somewhat by the man’s undisguised rudeness. “ _Somebody’s_ not getting laid enough.” 

“Are we talking about _you_ now?”

“Oh ho.” Now Feilong was laughing openly. Asami was a man who prided himself on his steely self-control and he was showing little of it, which meant that whatever was irking him likely had something to do with a certain feisty bleached blond. Feilong was overcome with the irresistible urge to take the giant stick that was currently shoved up Asami’s ass and poke him in the eye with it. So he did just that, pleading in a mocking tone, “Don’t hurt me, daddy, I’ll be a good boy if you—” 

“In your _dreams_ , you little bitch.”

It became clear to Feilong that Asami was feeling super chatty and wouldn’t be letting him get a word in edgewise. With an indolent sigh, he put the phone on speaker and set it on the table next to him, along with the pipe, in order to have both hands free to touch himself. Nothing turned him on more than Asami treating him like trash and verbally fucking his ears—Feilong had always had to accept whatever he could get from that withholding, self-centered bastard—and Asami seemed to be off to a fast start tonight. “Go on,” Feilong prodded, hoping it didn’t come out sounding too much like a needy moan.

“Stop filling Takaba’s head with your shit-for-brain ideas.”

Oh, good lord, Asami had uttered the words ‘filling’ and ‘Takaba’ in one sentence and that was plenty of incentive for Feilong’s cock to twitch with interest in the silk trousers that he wore beneath his embroidered changshan. He gave his rapidly chubbing penis a too-firm squeeze that bordered on painful and queried, “Or what?” Sheesh. That came out girlishly breathy, no doubt about that. The deep alpha male voice that resonated into the room in reply nearly made Feilong swallow his tongue.

“Or I’ll put you over my knee and spank the living daylights out of you,” Asami threatened.

Feilong had to bite down on his lower lip to stop himself from creaming his favorite comfy pants on the spot. Damn that Asami! That jerk knew how to push all his kink buttons! “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t spoken to Takaba in ages.”

There was a long pause as Asami sucked on his Dunhill almost 3000 km away in Tokyo, savoring the taste of the tobacco as he drew it fully into his lungs before exhaling slowly through his nostrils. He could easily picture in his mind’s eye that beautiful Chinese freak masturbating to the sound of his voice. Liu Feilong was _such_ a pussy, yeah…a pussy in heat and arching its back, hungry and mewling for dick. “You’ve been texting him, though.” Asami let a smirk cut a crooked gash across his face when he heard the sharp intake of breath from Feilong before warning, “Don’t lie to me. I know everything.” Asami took another drag, and then asked, “Are you fingering yourself yet?”

“How dare you presume to—” 

“Do it now. Four fingers. Make it hurt.”

“Gggghhh…” Like an obedient child, Feilong sucked four fingers into his drooling mouth, then reached inside his trousers and between his thighs and...“I hate you, you sick son-of-a-bitch. Ah…fuck…" Gosh, four fingers were a lot to take all at once when one hadn’t gotten any action lately, but how could he refuse when it was Asami demanding it? "So, do you spy on Takaba like some creepy stalker boyfriend? Do you check his phone like some overbearing _dad_?” 

“Takaba is _mine_ , Feilong. I _own_ him, everything about him, and I protect what is mine, especially from the aggy likes of you. What business do you have telling him to buy me a Patek Philippe?” And then, like a Lancia Stratos taking an S-curve at high speed, Asami turned on a dime. “Are those fingers in? Make sure you get them in there nice and deep, like you’re digging for gold.”

Feilong crooked his wrist and plunged his fingers further inside himself, his toes curling in response. Ugh, it was awfully hard not to pant. “He asked me what to get you for your birthday. It’s not his fault an egotistical douchebag like you has everything already, is it? I was just trying to help him.”

“Don’t.” Asami took a moment to enjoy the filthy sounds in his ear, his own cock plumping nicely against his thigh, before commanding, “Now…put those slutty lips on that leaking cock of yours. I know you’re limber, and I know you can’t wait to get off all over your whore-face, can’t wait to shoot that load down your own throat. Am I right?”

“Go to hell,” Feilong hissed back. With practiced agility, he pushed his trousers past his hips, scooted onto his back on the divan, and threw his knees over his shoulders, his erection dropping neatly into his mouth as he proceeded to suck himself off. Thank god for years of yoga and t’ai chi!

“Are you jerking it, too?” asked Asami, his voice a prurient purr. “I want you to strip that voluptuous dick of yours. I want it nice and wet and shiny enough to see my own reflection in it.” Loud gurgling and slurping noises where followed by the sounds of a man grunting and gagging through a very prolonged and tortured climax. “That’s right,” Asami ordered, “choke on it. Swallow it all for daddy.” He gave Feilong a few minutes to compose himself, and then he asked, “How much is it going to cost?”

“Huh? What?” came Feilong’s wrecked voice. He pulled up his trousers and lay flat on the divan, wiping his mouth with the edge of his sleeve. He was a disheveled mess and he knew it.

“The watch,” Asami said. “Which watch did you tell Takaba to buy for me?”

“Oh, uh…the Calatrava. It’s the cheapest one. But don’t worry, I wasn’t going to let Takaba pay full price for it.”

“That’s right, because _you’re_ going to cover most of the cost. And I want the Tourbillon, not the Calatrava. You’re going to tell Takaba that you got it for a steal at auction. You’re going to tell him that it cost 100,000 yen. Fudge the paperwork, make it look authentic. Understood?”

100,000 yen couldn’t buy a single gear on a pre-owned Patek Phillipe watch, but Takaba wasn’t exactly an expert on Swiss timepieces collected the same way people invested in Old Master paintings. Leave it to Asami to ask for the model listed for over 1.7 million US dollars in Sotheby’s catalog for their upcoming auction. The idea that Asami would likely leave the watch to Takaba in his will put a smile on Feilong’s face. He had done some shitty things to the boy—abduction, imprisonment, rape—and Feilong deeply regretted those actions committed in jealousy. He didn’t mind playing along with Asami’s ruse if it meant Takaba could have a nest egg of sorts after Asami was shot to smithereens eventually. For his part, he planned on leaving Tao his collection of priceless Qing Dynasty porcelain so the boy could live well after his own demise. The specter of death hung over every mob boss; all the more reason to prepare for the worst case scenario.

“Fine, fine,” Feilong conceded. “So when do I get an invitation to your birthday—”

“Just send the watch,” Asami interrupted before ending the call.

Yeah, he was being rude, but it was Feilong’s idea that had led to Takaba getting eye-raped by those losers in that club in Shibuya. He had always done his best to let Takaba run wild in Tokyo, but Asami drew the line when it came to touching. No one touched his boy, no one but him, and he touched him _thoroughly_ that night when he found out the manager was putting Takaba in one of the ‘booths’ which could only lead to one thing. It was annoying enough that the club was one of several that belonged to that scumbag Sakazaki, but the manager in charge had been ignorant to a degree that was inexcusable. He hadn’t done his homework and that was bad for everyone. To the general public, Asami Ryuichi was one of Japan’s wealthiest businessmen and most sought-after bachelor, a smooth operator among the most elite social circles, a philanthropist and generous donor to various schools, hospitals, and arts organizations. But his private persona was equally well-known to his underworld associates, where sexual proclivities of any and all varieties were accepted with tightly closed lips, and the pets and toys of bosses were off-limits unless one wanted to start a war. This manager had been clueless about Takaba’s identity, even though Asami did nothing to hide their relationship—all the hiding was on Takaba’s part—so Asami had ‘enlightened’ the man with his fists before enjoying a very heated lap dance from his sweet little Akihito. That Takaba was willing to sell his body to buy him an obscenely expensive gift for his upcoming birthday had consumed Asami with possessive rage, but another part of him was filled with admiration, and these conflicting emotions roused the wild beast in him, a beast that was stalking in circles inside him and clawing to get out, a beast that wanted more and more to fulfill its primal imperative, to breed his mate and bond for life and maybe, if he found the courage, to say those words that would make Takaba truly his forever.

________

Poor Feilong, still obsessed with Asami, but who can blame him?

Here's one of my favorite fan-made videos featuring: [Feilong/Asami/Takaba/Mikhail](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPzWymK0xEg) 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather long, but I didn’t want to split it in two because the events all take place in one night. 
> 
> Be sure to check out the links at the end of the chapter, provided for your enjoyment.

 

Slated to perform that evening was a famous Italian opera singer, a Hungarian concert pianist, a hot K-Pop boy band, and Japan’s premier taiko drumming troupe, all top-of-the-line acts that had the guests at Asami’s birthday reception abuzz with anticipation. Nothing but the very best would do for Asami Ryuichi, so Kirishima was hoping that no one would notice if the final performer listed on the program card never made it to the stage. Takaba was glued to the open bar during the cocktail hour, drinking like a fish to calm his nerves and alleviate his boredom while Asami was busy attending to his guests, and Kirishima was doing nothing to stop him because, well, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if Takaba conveniently passed out in a quiet corner. The boy was a lightweight when it came to hard liquor and he was slugging down one vodka martini after another, so the probability of him being too inebriated to perform was quite high. Takaba’s own claims about practicing diligently for two months straight and being ready for his number ( _“I’m going to nail it, megane, just you wait and see!”)_ weren’t enough to assuage Kirishima’s nagging doubts. The young photographer was a regular at the karaoke clubs and could carry a tune as well as anyone, but for some crazy reason he had insisted on playing a recorder instead of singing like a normal human being. Seriously? A recorder? Kirishima could only hope that Asami didn’t live to regret his executive decision to indulge yet another one of his lover’s ridiculous whims.

When the emcee stepped onto the stage after a spectacular set by the Kodō drummers, the ballroom erupted into enthusiastic cheers, the guests clearly impressed by the performances thus far. People fell to lively conversation while a karaoke machine was brought onto the stage and hooked up to the speakers, and then the emcee announced with the hyper gaiety of a game show host, “And now, for our final act, an instrumental rendition of _My Heart Will Go On_ performed by amateur musical artist, Takaba Akihito!” 

There was a smattering of weak applause in response and then the room hushed as the guests waited. And waited. And waited. Kirishima swiveled his head left and right from where he was sitting next to Asami at the table by the stage and silently screamed with delight. Hooray! The kid must have blacked out somewhere! The joyous relief was just beginning to wrap around him like a soft blanket when the double doors to the ballroom crashed open and ‘amateur musical artist’ Takaba Akihito haphazardly ricocheted his way to the stage, bumping into people sitting at the tables like a silver ball in a pachinko machine. Kirishima’s eyes almost fell out of his head when he saw that Takaba was no longer wearing the formal shirt and dinner jacket that Asami had bought him; rather, he had changed into what looked like a pirate outfit: a billowy white shirt with flouncy sleeves donned over a pair of black leather pants and knee-high black leather boots, topped off with a red bandana tied around his head. _O-kaaay_. Takaba hadn’t mentioned anything about cosplaying at Asami’s black tie affair. What could Kirishima do but sit back and pray for an asteroid to hit Tokyo? 

The room hushed even more as the lights in the ballroom dimmed and a spotlight was directed onto Takaba as he stumbled his way to the microphone on its stand. His face was flushed from the alcohol, beads of sweat glistening on his collarbone; he brought the recorder up to his lips as a stagehand flipped the switch on the karaoke machine and the first lilting strains of the accompanying background music floated through the air. With a drunken sway of his slender torso, Takaba launched into the song, blowing raggedly into the recorder and…four long minutes of astounding ear-rape ensued. 

Even with his IQ of 130, Kirishima could not begin to fathom how Takaba was hitting so many notes off-key and in such stupefying fashion. He had never heard anything like it in his life.  After sitting stunned for the first minute, Kirishima craned his neck behind Asami to look at Suoh, who was standing guard at the back of the room. Suoh’s expression was as stony as usual, but the man was tone-deaf, so…Kirishima discreetly scanned the rest of the room and was forced to confront the nightmare: he saw what could only be unmitigated pain and confusion plastered on everyone’s face, pain and confusion mixed with horror, because it was Asami Ryuichi’s lover up there making a monumental fool of himself and no one wanted to be a witness at this gruesome crime scene. But there they were, frozen in terror—toughened yakuza bosses and their no-neck lieutenants, slippery politicians and their kowtowing sponsors, corporate honchos and their trophy wives—all desperate to escape being aurally bludgeoned to death by some boy using a recorder as a lethal weapon, but unable to flee for fear of incurring Asami’s displeasure. 

Kirishima broke out in a cold sweat. Oh god, he was going to be out of a job for sure. Even though it was Asami’s idea to let Takaba perform, he would have to bear the responsibility for this very public fiasco, one that would likely tarnish Asami’s meticulously crafted image beyond repair. Mindlessly, Kirishima took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his damp forehead; then he dabbed at his ears just to make sure he wasn’t bleeding from them. The seconds ticked by and each second felt like an eon of time as Takaba blew and blew and blew on his recorder, the off-key notes carving through him like the time he had watched Asami disembowel a traitor with his katana. God help him. Perhaps that is what Asami would do to him in the parking garage afterwards. It would be a merciful death compared to what he was listening to at the moment. Kirishima leaned over, keeping his eyes directed toward the stage through sheer force of will, and asked Asami, who was sitting next to him like a statue, “Should I tell the technician to cut the speakers?”

“Do that and I’ll break your neck,” the man growled.

“Yes, sir.” Out of the corner of his eye, Kirishima could see Asami holding his phone at arm’s length to record Takaba’s performance. What he planned to do with that gem was anyone’s guess. In all the years of working closely with him, Kirishima had never detected any masochistic tendencies in Asami, but there it was, yet another mystery of life revealed. How else could he explain it? First the white polyester suit on Takaba’s birthday, now this DEFCON Level 4 debacle on his own birthday? What kind of brutal self-flagellation was this? Jesus Christ, Asami wasn't even Catholic!

Kirishima waited until the ‘song’ finally ended to look directly at his boss. And then he was floored. The man was sitting ramrod straight, his eyes locked onto Takaba, and he was crying, his cheeks wet. Wet! Kirishima didn’t even know Asami had working tear ducts, but this evening was turning into one of those ‘teaching moments’ he supposed, because he was learning things that were blowing his mind. He wasn’t sure if Asami was crying from pain or humiliation or anger or disappointment…perhaps all of those things?

Then, to everyone’s continued shock, Asami stood up tall, a small smile curling his lips, and _clapped_. He clapped slowly and with surety into the deafening silence of the room, clapped until all two hundred guests stood up and joined him in forced applause and Takaba smiled back, his face beaming with unbridled happiness as he bowed deeply three times and would have fallen off the stage if Asami hadn’t dashed to the front of the platform and caught his little pirate mid-tumble. It was then that Kirishima realized with a mixture of doom and gloom that Asami was truly in love—utterly, hopelessly, blindly in love. He left his seat so that Takaba could sit next to Asami as the lights came back on, signaling to the headwaiter for the first course of dinner to be served. It couldn’t have come sooner. He needed to hide in the coatroom and have the epileptic seizure that he’d been putting off all evening.

***

Asami Ryuichi wasn’t wealthy because he had a psychotic obsession with money. As someone who had risen from nothing, making money was a _challenge_ and, like all alpha males with a god complex, a challenge was something to be met and mastered, time and again, no matter what shape or form. He was wealthy because he was driven, tenacious, fearless, as fearless as the boy who stood up on that stage and gave it his all despite daunting limitations. In courage and honesty, Takaba was peerless. Asami’s tears might be as rare as hen’s teeth, but he shed them freely and without shame because who else but Takaba would bare himself like that in front of two hundred elite guests who possessed all the things he lacked—status, power, money—and yet his sweet little Akihito offered what they couldn’t: he offered his heart, ripped straight out of his chest, bloody and beating with passion. So Asami wept, knowing that he was the luckiest man in the world.

In the men’s room, towards the end of the ten-course dinner, Kirishima Kei was still struggling to wrap his neatly coiffed head around Asami’s recent actions and motivations, and failing to arrive at any rational conclusions.

“Boss knows what he’s doing,” Suoh assured him. Asami’s Chief-of-Security had noticed how pale Kirishima looked and followed him into the coolness of the marble-tiled lavatory in case he needed to revive him after a heart attack. Suoh Kazumi was just that kind of classy dude.

“Does he?” Kirishima asked as he splashed more cold water onto his face and gratefully accepted the towel Suoh held out to him. “Haven’t you noticed he’s lost his fucking mind?” God, he felt like crying. He had worked so tirelessly to cultivate the image of Asami as a man of power, beauty, and intellect, a man of flawless judgment and taste, and he had succeeded in doing just that. He had promoted and preserved Asami’s reputation, kept him well-advised and relatively sane in an insane world. Juggling a million responsibilities as Asami’s personal assistant wasn’t easy by any stretch, but Kirishima took great pride in his mastery of almost every aspect of Asami’s daily routine, from negotiating billion dollar acquisitions to managing the tiniest details of his personal life, like which type of sake to keep stocked in his fridge or what kind of lube or condom or sex toy he wanted to try out next. For the past year, however, Asami had stopped asking for new types of condoms and had quadrupled the lube and sex toy requests and Kirishima knew why: Takaba Akihito, the monkey wrench that had been thrown into the machinery of Asami’s formerly well-ordered life and Kirishima was at a loss.

“You worry too much,” Suoh said. He stood with his thick arms crossed over his broad chest, as immovable as a mountain. Suoh didn’t know much about emotions, having so few himself, but he did feel sorry for his colleague, who was suffering from some kind of existential crisis. Though he wasn’t prone to chattiness, Suoh was observant; he could see Kirishima unraveling before him and he wanted badly to say the right thing. He didn’t really know what to make of his boss’ infatuation with Takaba, but he wasn’t paid to have an opinion about such things, so he didn’t pass judgment. Kirishima, however, seemed to be taking it all too personally. “Are you jealous or something?” 

“Holy fuck,” Kirishima groaned to the ceiling, “why would you even think that?” 

Suoh shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re acting super jelly, that’s all.”

 _Am I?_ Kirishima wondered glumly, mouth slack, and then he sighed with resignation. “Shit. Have I become the scorned wife?” 

Another shrug. “Kind of.”

“Fuck. Just shoot me in the head, Kazumi. Just shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery. I mean, how could I possibly compete with…with…” He waved a hand helplessly in the air, the memory of Takaba’s musical performance exploding in his skull like a migraine from hell. “Fine. Whatever. Boss is in crazy ass gay love with that brat and I’m…I’m okay with it.” His shoulders slumped, his body limp and drained with the kind of exhaustion experienced after orgasm, except without the benefit of any pleasure. “Thanks, man. I owe you one."

“No problem.”

Their earpieces suddenly screeched to life with a man’s frantic voice. It was Kuroda Shinji, one of the few guests at the party who could claim genuine friendship with Asami, and he was shouting like a man on fire, “Code Rainbow Brite, fuckers! Code Rainbow Brite!”

Kirishima and Suoh stared at each other in horror for a split second, and then both men tore out of the bathroom while somehow maintaining their dignity, all to witness the complete and utter loss of dignity in their boss, who had taken off his formal dinner jacket and was now loosening his bowtie in a slow tease like a stripper as staff removed the stage, creating a dance floor in the middle of the ballroom. A large mirrored disco ball had emerged from the ceiling and the lights in the room were dimming once more as other colored strobe lights came on in their place.

“Oh god, no…” Kirishima muttered under his breath. “It’s happening again.” He nearly jumped out of his skin when Kuroda suddenly appeared at his elbow looking like he was in the throes of a stroke.

“What the hell, Kei?” Kuroda spluttered. “You were supposed to keep him under control.”

“I know, I know,” Kirishima spat back, “but Takaba’s performance…I got distracted. He must have snuck it when I was in the men’s room.” _What a god awful night!_ Kirishima bemoaned silently. This was going to be a PR disaster for the ages. When Asami had ordered post-dinner dancing to be put on the list of entertainment for the evening, Kirishima should have known things would go sideways when a mirrored disco ball was requested as part of the set-up, and that wasn’t the only red flag. He’d been driving Asami to a certain dance studio each week for two months now, the same studio he and Takaba had gone to leading up to the boy’s birthday in May, and now Kirishima stood shaking with dread. He had not been allowed into the dance studio, but he had seen the videos that went viral of Asami’s earlier duet with Takaba…

“Look at his eyes,” Kuroda continued to seethe in Kirishima’s ear. The guests had risen from their tables and were gathered in excited clusters around the dance floor as Asami threw his waistcoat into the crowd and rolled up his sleeves, striding about the floor like a bull in the ring, his pupils the size of frisbees. “What the fuck is he on? E? Crystal meth?”

“Probably both,” Suoh commented flatly.

The two other men groaned in unison. All three had been present years ago when Asami was just starting to build his empire. Milestones had been reached: the first business acquisitions, the first proprietary trading routes, the first territorial takeovers, the first planned murders and cover-ups. They were young and bold and celebrating these early successes at a club called Rainbow Brite in Shinjuku. Alcohol and drugs were had in abundance and, for the first time, Kuroda, Kirishima, and Suoh saw with their own eyes just what Asami was capable of when all his inhibitions were turned loose: the man could dance like the devil. That was fifteen years ago, though, and while Asami could pop and lock to his heart’s content as a cocky twenty-one-year-old stud, he was _supposed_ to be a respectable model citizen as a mature man of thirty-six. Yes, he was thirty-six and preparing to go nuts again on the dance floor with drug-fueled fervor.

“How am I going to keep this out of the media?” Kirishima moaned. Then the music started and he closed his eyes, half-sobbing, “Mommy…” In the back of his mind, Kirishima could only think, _He’s doing this for Takaba_.

Well, if Takaba was willing to serenade Asami with a recorder whilst dressed as Jack Sparrow in _Pirates of the Caribbean_ , then Asami was willing to go one step further and recreate his role as Tony Manero from _Saturday Night Fever_ because Asami was a man who appreciated that kind of in-your-face audacity. Like a peacock, he strutted to the center of the floor and busted out his sick moves without a moment of hesitation. The crowd went wild, clapping and shouting and chanting. Takaba stood in awe at the edge of the dance floor, his mouth gaping into a huge smile, and then, unable to contain himself, he started jumping up and down like a kid on an imaginary pogo stick, fist pumping in the air when Asami worked his hips like the boss that he was, finger pointing at his sweet little kitten.

There was a disturbance in the crowd and then it suddenly parted like the Red Sea as a huge blond blur slid across the dance floor. Suoh Kazumi was _shirtless_ , his ripped pecs and abs on display for all to see, his meaty biceps bulging as he crossed his arms in front of his chest and went down in a seemingly impossible Russian squat-and-kick move known as the _prisyadka_ , a dance step that required the most incredible athleticism and balance and Suoh _owned_ it. Even Asami was amazed, then even more amazed when Suoh leapt into the air in an awesome split and tore his pants in tandem and _kept on going_. Everyone discovered in one of those TMI moments that Suoh liked to go commando.

Kuroda jumped in next, stripping off his jacket and tie, and started _twerking_ like no district prosecutor ever should. He and Asami went way back and if he had to fall on his sword to protect his Ryu-chan’s image, then he’d go big with it. It took a moment for Kirishima to grasp what was happening, but when comprehension dawned, he exhaled a deep sigh and said a prayer of thanks before stopping by the DJ’s station to request a song, and then he joined Suoh and Kuroda in making bigger fools of themselves than their boss, who had Takaba in his arms and was spinning him around like a pirate-ballerina in _The Nutcracker_. In another minute, the floor became a mosh pit with tattooed yakuza lieutenants getting into the mix, along with trophy wives bedecked in diamonds letting their hair down, and politicians and CEOs reliving their teen years when the DJ started blasting Kirishima’s request, Devo’s _Whip It_. If this ship was going to be sunk in the society pages the next day, thought Kirishima, then let it go down in a gigantic blaze of glory like the freaking Titanic.

______

Takaba’s performance is based on New Zealand musician Matt Mulholland’s brilliant rendition of _My Heart Will Go On_. Check it out [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X2WH8mHJnhM).

Asami’s performance, as well as Suoh’s, is once again inspired by John Travolta in his role as Tony Manero in the movie _Saturday Night Fever_. Check it out [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LUID0jSh2Ic).

And here’s the song requested by Kirishima, ‘cause, you know, he’s a total freak: [Devo, Whip It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RidtrSCogg0).

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

“Aki-kun! You’re on TV!” 

“Oh my god, Mom.” Takaba’s head was exploding with the worst hangover of his life and the sound of his mother screaming into his ear wasn’t helping. A glass of tomato juice heavily spiked with vodka was set on the coffee table in front of where he lay curled into a tight ball of pain on the leather sofa in the living room, a bag of frozen edamame held over his forehead. His skin was numb from the cold, but it wasn’t dulling the sensation of spikes driven into his temples. His lover, on the other hand, was showing no ill effects after a long night of debauchery.

“Hair of the dog,” Asami smirked down at him, mouthing the words silently so he didn’t interrupt the phone call. He had yet to meet Takaba’s parents. He figured he should let Takaba make the formal introductions after he admitted to himself that he had a _boyfriend_ in the first place. Asami was impatient about many things, but not about that. Anything that had to do with family ties or obligations could wait. They could wait until the end of time for all he cared. His own upbringing had been a shitshow of gargantuan proportions, a past he kept locked away for everyone’s benefit, but mostly his own.

“Do you remember Nakamura-san, the lady who used to babysit you?” Takaba’s mother went on, oblivious to her son’s spiraling nausea. “She says you’re on all the TV screens at the Bic Camera in Shibuya! She’s there right now. I haven’t seen it myself, but she’s going to send me the video she’s taking on her phone.”

Growing up, Takaba had been the only kid in school whose family did NOT own a television. What the hell was that? This was Japan, home of electronics! But his mother was a firm believer that television rotted the brain and ruined one’s eyesight and no matter how desperately Takaba had begged, his mother had never relented. He had yet to forgive her.

“Your father’s going to shit his pants!” his mother continued shouting. Takaba senior was in Paris at the moment covering the riots over rising gas prices and she couldn’t wait to tell her husband that their former juvenile delinquent of a son was now a celebrity for some mysterious reason. “Oh, god, you didn’t accidentally kill someone, did you?”

At that, Takaba heaved suddenly, dropping the phone on the carpet and making a mad dash for the powder room in the hallway. He barfed into the toilet for the fifth time that morning, mostly bitter stomach acid because all the food he had consumed the night before had come up and out hours ago. This was so unfair. Asami could down shot after shot of whisky and remain sober. What was the secret? He rinsed his mouth out and hobbled back to the couch, his mother still chattering on her end of the line. He heard her pause, saying, “Wait a sec, I just got the video…” The silence went on a lot longer than Takaba expected, but he didn’t mind the respite from the noise. In the kitchen, he could hear Asami opening drawers and mucking about with the pots and pans. It was past noon and with Takaba out of commission, the man would have to make breakfast for himself. He heard Asami complain, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, are we out of eggs? How can we be out of eggs?” That would have elicited a snicker from Takaba under normal circumstances, but not today, not when his mother was now swearing in his ear.

“Holy shit!” came her shrill voice. “Is this some kind of joke? Young man, you are in _so_ much trouble. This better be a joke or I will beat your ass myself!”

Takaba swallowed, gulping back the bile that threatened to rise up into his throat once more. His mother was a primary school music teacher in Kanagawa, the prefecture in which he was born and raised. In fact, she had been Takaba’s music teacher when he was in the fourth grade and learning how to play the recorder alongside his dorky classmates.

When he was six, Takaba Hisayo had entertained high hopes that her only son Akihito—like some child prodigy, Japan’s very own Mozart!—would master the piano, her own chosen instrument, but his hyperactivity and lack of focus from an early age made it impossible for him to sit still long enough to practice his scales; she gave up when he couldn’t get past “Turkey in the Straw” in the _Piano Primer for Beginners_ lesson book. She hadn’t pushed it, not wanting to embarrass him at yet another disastrous recital in front of other students and their parents. She was sensitive to such things because her own experiences had taught her that people could be cruel and judgmental, and she didn’t want anyone to make her son feel that he was less than adequate, unless it was her dressing him down for being an idiot. That was a mother’s prerogative and she never hesitated to exercise that right.

Akihito had been what people nowadays call ‘unplanned,’ but in the old days, when she had been pregnant with him, they would have called him an unfortunate ‘accident,’ a child born of youthful lust and foolishness. She had been a freshman at Nagoya College of Music, away from home for the first time and wildly horny like all eighteen-year-olds, when she attended a lecture with some fellow classmates at nearby Nagoya City University. It was a panel discussion focusing on the manipulation of truth in the media. Afterwards, during the meet-and-greet session, she had found herself being chatted up by one of the guest panelists, a photojournalist by the name of Takaba Kentaro. The man was twenty years her senior—old enough to be her own father!—but he was worldly and charming and told the most amusing stories full of adventure. To a girl who had hitherto led a rather sheltered, narrow existence, he might as well have been a rock star. They ended up banging in the parking lot in the back of his van in a spur of the moment lapse of good judgment. A month later, when she was four weeks late for her period, she bit the bullet and bought an early pregnancy test. It came back positive.

To her surprise, Kentaro offered to marry her when she called the number on the business card he had given her. She was going to ask for money for an abortion, but he had been insistent, telling her that he would provide for her and the child. The marriage would be for her own protection, to save face for her and her family. If they had clicked well enough to have a one-night-stand, then why not give marriage a try? Why not, indeed? She was young and foolish and he, though much older, seemed to be the kind of free spirit who could make life exciting. What could possibly go wrong?

At first it seemed like all the stars were aligning in her favor. After a shotgun wedding in which neither set of families killed each other, she conveniently gave birth after the school term had ended, and so didn’t even fall behind in her studies. When the academic year started up again in the fall, her mother agreed to babysit the little bundle of drool. That Kentaro was always off on assignment for one magazine or another actually made things easier in the beginning. They saw so little of each other that when he finally did come home for a few days at a stretch, it was like Christmas and New Year’s all rolled into one. Their lovemaking was always torrid and satisfying until the whole “absence makes the heart grow fonder” routine eventually morphed into its opposite, “out of sight, out of mind.” By the time Takaba was in his early teens, he was behaving in ways typical of kids with estranged parents: skipping school, hanging out late with other truants, breaking into cars and joyriding, shoplifting at various convenience stores.

“Wait’ll your father gets home!” was an empty threat which fell on deaf ears; dad was never home, after all. It was an Officer Yamazaki down at the police station who ended up taking Takaba under his wing and straightening him out. He’d arrested Takaba enough times to see that the kid was sorely in need of male supervision. Plus, Takaba’s mother was a hottie and also sorely in need of a man’s attention in other, more intimate ways. Officer Yamazaki made sure to offer his manly assistance to both mother and son before transferring to Tokyo, where he had been promoted to the rank of detective. Who would have thought that Takaba would eventually pursue photography as a career, then? His mother’s fantasy of Takaba becoming a world class concert pianist had been dashed very early on, but to see her son follow in his absentee father’s footsteps…how fucking irksome! 

“Why were you playing an F sharp?” Takaba heard his mother’s disgruntled harangue as soon as he put the phone back to his ear. “There are no F sharps in that song! And why were you dressed like a pirate? There were no pirates on the Titanic! No wonder you got a D in History that year!” There was some more hysterical shrieking, and then, “You know what, you _did_ kill someone. You killed _me_. You killed me and my career!”

“Mom, please…I can’t do this right now,” Takaba pleaded.

“What? Are you hung over again? How many times do I have to tell you: beer before wine, everything fine; wine after beer, stay clear. Don’t you ever listen to your own mother? Well, serves you right! I hope you puke your guts out because you’ve just about gotten me fired! How am I supposed to face my school’s principal? _The music instructor can’t even teach her own son the basic scales!_ That’s what they’ll all be saying! Wait’ll your father gets home!” That standard threat from childhood had never prevented Takaba from getting into trouble as a teen, but its lack of efficacy never stopped his mother from leveling it against him even as an adult.

When the line finally went dead, Takaba let out a moan of relief. He would deal with his mother later…and what the hell was she even talking about? Was he really on TV? How? A warm hand on his shoulder made him crack open one eye.  Asami was staring back at him, his golden irises just inches away from his face.

“Takaba, I’m going out for breakfast,” Asami announced. “If you need anything, give me a call.”

Knowing Asami, he’d probably go to his favorite ryōtei, Nakayama, for a full-on traditional Japanese meal suitable for old people’s delicate constitutions. As much as Takaba hated to pass up the opportunity to tease him with a snarky comment, he just didn’t have the energy. Instead, he rolled into a fetal position, grateful that Asami had not tried to kiss him. His mouth tasted like something had up and died in it more than once. “Wait…Asami…when will you be…”

“I’ll be home later. Get some sleep.”

 _Later?_ When was later? The next thing Takaba heard was the front door clicking shut. How much time had elapsed? A minute? An hour? He didn’t know. With a groan, he sat up, the room spinning around him, and made himself sip slowly on the glass of tomato juice and vodka that Asami had left for him. He vowed to never drink another martini ever again. A half-lidded glance at his phone showed that both Kou and Takato had texted him an inordinate number of times while he had nodded off, and then it rang, startling him enough to almost spill his drink. Wouldn’t that just be the icing on the cake: tomato juice all over Asami’s white sheepskin rug and white leather sectional.

“Oh. Fuck. Me.” It was his father calling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea who Takaba’s parents are other than the fact that his father is a photographer. I decided to name Takaba’s father ‘Kentaro’ after the mangaka of Berserk, the great Miura Kentaro. I named his mother ‘Hisayo’ after a friend of mine.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to I_hethneko_luv_my_kittens_4ever for the e-card she created and allowed me to use as inspiration for the “internet meme” that appears in this chapter. Be sure to click on the link down below!

In the beginning, Asami had thought it prudent to keep Takaba his dirty little secret, not because he was ashamed of bedding the brat, but because Asami knew his relationship with the photographer could be used against him. Kidnapping and abduction were very real threats to the wealthy and those who engaged in criminal activities—two groups that were often one and the same—so the wealthy and the criminal took every precaution to safeguard their loved ones. After the attack on his penthouse by a rogue Russian faction, Asami had sent Takaba away, hiding him in a remote monastery under the keen eye of a former bodyguard who had since retired from his service. But even then, it hadn’t been enough. What Asami had hoped would be a safe haven was discovered by his enemies, and Takaba was once again placed in danger. The idea that he wouldn’t be able to protect Takaba had weighed heavily on Asami. It plagued him at night, especially after he had fucked his boy ten different ways and the two of them lay exhausted. That’s when the worry took hold of him; to have Takaba boneless in his arms made him know just how much he couldn’t live without him.

The night of his birthday party had been a real eye-opener. He wasn’t expecting to be blown away by Takaba’s performance, but then…he was…blown away, not by his lover’s drunken ineptitude, but by his unabashed courage and confidence. The penthouse was wired with the most high-tech of surveillance equipment, so Asami, in the comfort of his office several miles away, had been privy to all the hours that Takaba had devoted to practicing on his recorder when he thought he was home alone. But it was during Takaba’s performance on stage—an experience akin to surgery without anesthesia for the listener—that Asami realized that the best way to keep Takaba safe was to hide him in plain sight. Rather than shielding him from prying eyes, he would offer his lover up to public scrutiny, and _they_ would keep him safe, the public that was always ravenous for the latest gossip, the public that was curious and eager to live vicariously through others. Going forward, if anyone dared lay a hand on his boy, then everyone would know about it; there would be no place for an enemy to find cover. It was a huge risk, but if Takaba could take that leap into the void in front of two hundred judgmental assholes, then Asami could lay his livelihood and reputation on the line too. He would go all-in on it and let the chips fall where they may, winner take all. 

Convincing his PA was another matter. Kirishima, though he was dressed and groomed impeccably, still conveyed the haunted look of a man who had been to hell and back when Asami walked into his office suite after enjoying what Takaba would call a ‘breakfast for old people’ at his favorite restaurant. It was a Saturday and, although the non-essential staff of Scion Corporation had off, Asami treated weekends like any other work day; he didn’t claw his way to the top by sitting at home watching the paint dry. 

“Relax,” Asami told his right-hand man, “I’ve got it all under control.” 

“Asami-sama.” Kirishima stood up behind his desk and bowed in greeting like he always did. Then he grabbed a folder and followed Asami into the ‘inner sanctum’ where Asami conducted his business. He placed the folder—which contained a detailed list of gifts received from the various attendees of Asami’s birthday party, along with notations on who owed whom what, information useful when it came time to call in favors or play one man against another—on Asami’s desk and bowed once more. “Excuse me, but are you aware of the—”

“I said, ‘relax.’” Asami sat down in his leather chair, lit up a cigarette, and began skimming through the list. After a languorous drag, he murmured offhandedly, “That was me.”

“Uh…you, sir?”

The genuine surprise crinkling Kirishima’s smooth forehead made Asami chuckle. “I sent in that footage. Well, Yoh helped out, too.” Asami took a flash drive out of his pocket and handed it over to Kirishima. “Go through that and pull out all the juicy bits. I want dirt on these fuckers.”

Kirishima’s eyes widened in shock behind his lenses, then his gaze lowered to the carpet. He _knew_ one of the waiters had looked too familiar; it was that cheesy fake Fu Manchu mustache that had thrown him off. Right now, though, his overly tired brain couldn’t handle worrying about Asami’s seemingly unshakeable trust in Yoh, a man who had spent the better part of eight years in the snake pit otherwise known as the Baishe syndicate in Hong Kong babysitting Liu Feilong, so Kirishima stuck to his original game plan. “Then…I suppose you know that the ‘fallout’ is all over the media this morning?”

“I should hope so.” Asami smiled like the cat that got the cream. “Suoh better not have ripped his trousers for nothing.”

“Yes…well…” Kirishima pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, a nervous tic he couldn’t seem to break. He and probably the rest of Tokyo had seen the video footage airing on all the major television stations of Suoh dancing about with his ass hanging out of his pants, the crack of his muscular buttocks pixilated for censorship reasons; can’t have the elderly, small children, and pregnant women seeing stuff like that. There was Kuroda, too, channeling Miley Cyrus, and Kirishima snapping a wet napkin onto the jiggling rumps of unsuspecting wives and girlfriends on the dance floor, politicians and yakuza bosses doing the Macarena really badly and…Takaba playing that blasted recorder. “I suppose you’ll be expecting my formal resignation by the end of the day.”

Asami actually flinched. It wasn’t often that he misread a situation, but Kirishima’s statement made him pause as he examined the report in his hand. “Resignation? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Your image, sir…it’s my responsibility to—”

The phone on Asami’s desk rang, interrupting Kirishima’s explanation for why he should relinquish his position. When Kirishima saw which line the call was coming in on, he merely bowed again and left the room, his stomach slowly uncoiling. Perhaps Asami wouldn’t fire him after all.

Asami put the call on speaker and leaned back into his chair, elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled in front of his face. “What is it now?”

“Well, good morning to you, too.” When Asami didn’t return the greeting, Feilong continued, “How do you like the watch?”

“I like it just fine.” Asami pulled his sleeve back and admired the exquisite piece of artisan craftsmanship with its delicate engraving and its setting with precious stones. “I made sure to thank Takaba for it last night. In fact, I thanked him _repeatedly_.”

“Did you now?”

“Of course. I _thrust_ the point home, again and again.” It was no lie. Asami hadn’t even waited to arrive back at the penthouse before ‘thanking’ his lover for the watch, the first of many times, by propositioning him in the backseat of the limo. “You blew so long and hard on that recorder, my sweet little Akihito. I think you can put those lips to even better use blowing on something else.” _Yeah, like my dick_. Then he had led Takaba’s hand to the hard length of his cock snaking down one leg of his trousers and Takaba’s mouth had fallen open like one of Pavlov’s drooling dogs. What more could a man ask for on his birthday?

There was an annoyed snort, and then Feilong cut to the chase. “That was some dance you did. I wonder how many women went home pregnant last night.”

“I don’t know,” Asami replied, his voice rich with smugness, “are _you_ pregnant after seeing me? Next time, tell Yoh he doesn’t have to pose as a waiter. He _is_ one of mine, after all.”

“Is that why I didn’t get an invitation to your party?” asked Feilong. “Were you afraid I’d beat you in a dance-off?”

Now it was Asami’s turn to smirk. “You _wish_. And enough with the games, Feilong. I sent you the invitation _as a PDF_ , so don’t give me some lame ass excuse about your version of Word being so fucking antiquated you couldn’t open it. And don’t say you _lost_ it either. That email was marked ‘read’ so I think we can agree that it’s _you_ who chickened out.”

“You know my back just isn’t the same after—”

“After what? After you let Mikhail pound your face into the mattress?”

“No, you jerk, after the car I was in got demolished, all because of you!” 

“That really sounds like code for: _my ass got drilled beyond repair_.”

“Oh my god, why do I put up with you?!”

“ _You’re_ the one who called me,” Asami reminded him. A tiny part of his sub-zero heart thawed a little for Feilong, but he had never asked that overly emotional fool to ‘negotiate’ with Mikhail on his behalf; Feilong had done that on his own, yet another ploy to win his attention and approval probably. Feilong should know by now, however, that Asami was the last person to praise him for his misguided efforts. “Tell you what,” Asami purred enticingly, “invite me to your next birthday party and I’ll give you the dance-off of your dreams. Just be careful what you wish for, little girl.”

***

“My ass is awesome. I never knew that.” Suoh took a sip of his coffee, his eyes on one of the many flat panel screens in the corporate dining room streaming the news. Right now, one of the massive LED billboards at Shibuya Crossing was running footage of Suoh’s incredible dance. Seeing his ass broadcast at such a massive scale was still mind-boggling even though he had been watching it all morning.

“Oh, it’s awesome, alright,” Kirishima concurred readily, happily taking a sip of his own cappuccino. He still had a job, and Asami hadn’t even been remotely upset about what had transpired after the birthday party the night before. The Titanic hadn’t hit an iceberg after all; it was still chugging along, afloat like a ship should be. Kirishima hadn’t slept a wink the night before—he had been so filled with anxiety on how to contain the disaster—but now he felt reborn and was soaring on adrenalin, euphoria, and caffeine. “You know, Suoh, you were right. Boss _does_ know what he’s doing.” It didn’t even hurt him to relive Takaba’s horrific performance. Let the kid blow on that wood to his heart’s content! God knows, he’d had enough practice blowing on Asami’s wood. 

Suoh’s phone dinged with a text. “Huh. Take a look at this,” Suoh grunted with surprise. He passed his phone over to Kirishima.

It was an offer from a clothing company looking for someone to model their latest line of men’s thong underwear. Oh Christ. Kirishima recognized the name of the company because he’d seen the packages of thoroughly un-classy unmentionables displayed in the gigantic emporium chock full of cheap items—Don Quijote—that Takaba favored when purchasing his own trashy briefs, normally ones in a camo pattern. This new line of thongs in need of a model was marketed under the product line ‘Big Cock’ and its icon was a silhouette of a proud red rooster with a puffed out chest.

“They want you to model for ‘Big Cock’ thong underwear?” Kirishima asked. He scrunched his brows as he reread the short, very enthusiastic text. “Do you think they saw your…uh…dance?”

“Maybe.” Suoh shrugged and cast his eyes back to the flat panel screen. Even with his ass crack blurred out, the cheeks still looked muscularly impressive. “I wouldn’t mind expanding my horizons.”

“You’re going to be expanding more than your horizons, Kazumi.” Kirishima always called Suoh by his first name whenever he was especially concerned for his friend. “They’ll ask you to pose with your junk hanging out there for the whole world to see. You know how you are about exposed skin.”

That made Suoh scrunch his brows in turn. “Well…as long as no one touches me…”

“They’ll be touching your bare ass with their _eyes_ , you dope, and eyes aren’t covered in rubber.” Kirishima knew every one of Suoh’s kinks, and the number one rule with Suoh when it came to his body was: his bare skin should be sheathed in rubber before coming into contact with someone else’s bare skin, which should also be sheathed in rubber. Needless to say, the dude didn’t get laid too often, except in specialty clubs.

“Eyeballs don’t need to be covered in rubber,” Suoh clarified. “You take things too far sometimes, Kei.” _Kei?_ Things were getting personal. “Are you sure you want to be Catholic?” Kirishima was probably only one of five people in Japan who practiced the faith and Suoh tended to believe that it was at the heart of all of Kirishima’s neurotic tendencies, like his insistence on wearing lacey panties beneath his manly attire and his penchant for whipping, both the giving and the receiving of it.

“They make me feel pretty,” was Kirishima’s standard explanation, and, “No pain, no gain.”

Before Kirishima could defend his addiction to his beloved Catholicism, his own phone dinged with a text from a sex toy manufacturer, asking if he’d be willing to endorse their newest line of leather whips aimed at the ‘adventurous salaryman’ market. _Oh, hell yeah!_ This was right up his alley. He was about to reply with an enthusiastic “Yes!” when the television screen started showing the latest internet meme. Some creative genius had gotten a hold of footage from Asami’s birthday party and combined it with an old music video of one of the songs played during the festivities and it was generating a thousand likes a second. “Oh. My. God,” muttered Kirishima.

Suoh was watching, too, and chuckling. “Look at boss go with that whip.”

And all Kirishima could do was moan to himself, “That should have been me.”

______

Here's the "internet meme" mentioned above, courtesy of I_hethneko_luv_my_kittens_4ever: [Devo's "Whip It" featuring Asami, Takaba, and Feilong](https://www.jibjab.com/view/make/whip_it_devo/c4db0eb9-ed56-40f0-a8cc-82147dd13ce0)

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don Quijote is a real store in Tokyo and it sells all sorts of crazy stuff, including some pretty ridiculous men's thong underwear.
> 
> Also, Kirishima snapping a wet napkin on people's asses was all fanfic3112's idea and all that talk about a "dance-off" is due to Dragonstone2017's prompt. Thank you for all the great suggestions! Keep 'em coming!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a while to update here. It's baseball season AND hockey playoffs AND I started a new fic recently so...forgive me.

“You break it, you buy it. You pop a cherry, you put a ring on that finger. If Beyoncé can say it, then so can I.” 

“Oh my god, Dad!” Takaba was pretty sure Beyoncé had never said anything about cherries being popped as a prelude to receiving a ring and _what the fuck_ was his father getting at anyway? “Please promise me you won’t say shit like that to Asami!” If he thought his mother was a handful, his father was even more of a loose cannon. And he told the worst jokes! Takaba couldn’t believe that his mother had called his father and told him that he was on the local news for his performance at Asami Ryuichi’s birthday bash. His father might be away globetrotting on photo assignments ten months out of the year, but that didn’t mean he was ignorant and he certainly knew who this particular Asami was. The man was on the “Ten Wealthiest Businessmen in Japan” list every year and if there was anything Takaba Kentaro kept track of no matter where he was in the world, it was the net worth of Japan’s elite. Call it a personal crusade or whatever, but Takaba Kentaro had spent the better part of his professional career uncovering the shady dealings of the ultra rich and threatening them with exposés to shame them into spreading their wealth to the needy. Takaba Kentaro called it social justice; his victims called it blackmail. This Asami Ryuichi was a slippery one in Kentaro’s opinion, slippery as an eel, but now that it appeared that his own son had some connection to the loaded bastard, other opportunities suddenly arose in the wily older man’s mind, such as: how to siphon some of Asami’s billions of yen into his own pocket. God knows, he needed a new furnace for the house. His wife had been nagging about the place being too cold in the winter. 

“Asami? Is that what you call him?” Takaba Sr. harrumphed. “So you’re not even on a first name basis with him? You’re bending over for this man and you can’t even say his first name? What kind of relationship is this?” 

“Who told you I was bending over for him? Who told you I was in a _relationship_?” Akihito was shouting but the words were trapped inside his constricted throat. He was speechless instead, a first for him. He prided himself on his snarky comebacks and sarcastic remarks and his father had slapped him plenty of times for his cheekiness whenever his father was actually at home with him and his mother, but right now Takaba couldn’t get the words out, he was too mortified. Who the hell had told his father that he was on _intimate_ terms with Asami? Beyond that ball-shriveling question, the truth of his father’s statement left him stunned in a completely different way. He never ever called his lover ‘Ryuichi’ and somehow it made Takaba feel like crying. That meddling prick Kuroda called Asami by his first name, but Takaba couldn’t. And, for all the shameless banging…Asami had never actually told him, “Aishiteru.” _I love you_. 

Okay, Asami had said “Suki desu” after the helicopter crash. Wasn’t that good enough?  So maybe it wasn’t as strong a declaration as “Daisuki,” but what did that matter? Asami was a man of very few sentiments and even fewer words and most of those few words—words like “Spread those legs” or “Suck my dick”—weren’t exactly romantic in nature. After everything they had been through, though, Takaba liked to believe that there was something between them that went beyond the fucking; he liked to believe that Asami genuinely _felt_ something for him in that cold, murderous heart of his, something tender and long-lasting.

“I…” There was a knot in Takaba’s throat and, yes, he wanted to throw up again but it wasn’t because of the hangover. Even though his parents were estranged for a good part of his childhood, he always admired his father and treasured the limited time spent with him whenever he was home from assignments. His father was a workaholic, but he always brought him souvenirs from all of his travels and one year, for Takaba’s sixteenth birthday, he gave him a camera, a _real_ camera and showed him how to take his first photos. It was probably the one thing that gave Takaba an interest in life that didn’t lead to juvenile detention and became his one great passion. That is, his one great passion until he met Asami. “Dad…I’m in love with him…” If Asami couldn’t say it, then Takaba would say it first, even if the confession were spoken aloud to his father instead of his lover. “Please don’t hate me.”

There was a long silence, and then his father asked, confusion and excitement clear in his voice, “Why would I hate you, son? We’re going to be rich!” 

***

After that, reining in his father was like stepping in front of a bullet train going full speed and yelling, “Stop!” Good luck with _that_. As soon as he heard his father say, “Your mother and I will come see you in Tokyo as soon as I’m done here in Paris…” Takaba knew it was _game_ _over_ for him. His parents would meet Asami and, oh man, he could see it now: his mother would likely accuse Asami of rape because the woman was like a human bloodhound, her ability to sniff out the truth was uncanny; his father would pull his “Put a ring on my son’s finger or else!” stunt, and then Asami would tell Takaba in that dismissive tone of his, “Go away, you disease,” as if he were a particularly virulent strain of syphilis. 

God, he felt awful, the nausea rolling through him in waves. He switched off his phone when his father finally ended the call with an enthusiastic, “See you in two weeks, Aki-kun!” and made his way back to the powder room in the hallway where he sat on the floor with his head in the toilet. Over the course of a hundred sobs and hiccups, he barfed up the tomato juice and vodka that Asami had told him to drink. “It’s over,” Takaba told himself as he wiped his face with some toilet paper. “I won’t get to puke into this toilet anymore. Goodbye, fancy toilet. Goodbye, fancy penthouse.” He wondered if Kou would let him move back in with him after Asami tossed him out. Takaba had spent his entire savings on that watch for Asami’s birthday and it would take time to make enough to pay rent by himself on some shitty studio apartment. It was either that or move back to Kanagawa and endure his mother’s censure. No, he’d rather step in front of a bus than be a child again.

He was still crying like a baby when Asami came home and found him mumbling nonsense into the toilet.

“Good thing I didn’t bring you any sushi,” Asami commented dryly. He looked at his watch and loosened his tie. It was eight in the evening and he had come home early to check on Takaba and see if he was interested in going out for a light meal. “Have you been puking this entire time? You’re probably dehydrated.”

Takaba blew his nose and slumped against the wall. “I came out to my dad.”

“Oh?” Asami raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?” 

“No.” The tears started rolling down his cheeks again. “They’re coming to visit. My parents…they’re coming to see me…”

“Oh.”

“They know about you,” Takaba mumbled to the opposite wall. “They want to meet you.”

“Mmm.”

He heard Asami disappear down the hallway and then the water running in the en suite. A few minutes later, Asami poked his head into the powder room and ordered, “Get in the bath, Takaba. You’re a mess.”

Asami had taken off his suit jacket, waistcoat, and tie and was down to his dress shirt, which he was slowly unbuttoning. Takaba suppressed a groan. If Asami was planning on joining him in the bath, then he was probably planning on fucking him too and Takaba was so _not_ in the mood for sex. He hadn’t even brushed his teeth and he knew he looked like an absolute dirtbag; god knows he felt like one. He didn’t have long to ponder this newest dilemma, though, because Asami merely picked him off the floor and carried him to their bedroom, where he finished undressing while Takaba watched from his seat on the bed. Yeah, Takaba looked and felt like a dirtbag and he still hadn’t brushed his teeth but that whole “I’m so not in the mood for sex” thing was making a quick exit, chased away by the sight of Asami peeling off his shirt, his trousers, his underwear, his socks…only a man like Asami could make sock removal a blisteringly hot act.

“I…I need to brush my teeth,” Takaba rasped. 

Asami stood with his hands on his hips in all his naked glory, cock showing no interest but hanging plump and juicy and making Takaba’s mouth water all the same. “So brush your teeth. I’m going to make myself a drink.”

And with that, Asami turned and walked out of the room, leaving Takaba to strip out of his ripe smelling clothes in the most _unsexy_ way and dash into the bathroom to finally brush his teeth and salvage some shred of dignity. When he caught a good look at himself in the mirror, he wanted to cry some more. He had dark bags under his eyes, snot dried on his nose, and his hair was sticking up wildly in all the wrong places. No wonder Asami _didn’t_ have a hard-on; he looked like something the cat dragged in. Takaba showered off next, using a generous dollop of Asami’s expensive shampoo because, damn, that stuff smelled so good. He toweled off his hair, feeling much better already, and lowered himself into the hot bath, grateful that Asami had given him the chance to make himself more presentable, or maybe it was just pure selfishness on Asami’s part. Asami wasn’t a man who tolerated having his eyes offended. Takaba was almost tempted to call out, “I’m ready!” when Asami walked into the bathroom with a glass of whisky in one hand, a bottle of orange-ginger soda in the other, and a massive erection on full display. 

“Feeling any better?” asked Asami, as if he _didn’t_ have a massive erection swinging heavily in front of him. 

Takaba gulped loud enough for the sound to echo against the tiles. So embarrassing! He took the soda that Asami offered him, unable to tear his gaze away from those long thick inches of manhood, and when Asami settled next to him and kissed him gently at first, all Takaba could do was moan, melting into the heat of his touch as Asami swept his tongue into his mouth.

“A-Asami…” Takaba reached under the water and gripped Asami’s cock, his fingers barely encircling its girth. Could he live without this? Could he live without ever breathing again? “A-Asa-miii…”

“Hmm?” Asami nuzzled Takaba’s ear, sucked and nibbled on the soft flesh of the lobe, sending shivers down Takaba’s spine. “Got your appetite back?”

“Baka.” Takaba let go of Asami’s cock and smacked him on the chest instead. His cheeks were flushed and it wasn’t just from the hot water. “I was sick all day.” He brought the bottle to his lips and took a long drink. The soda was sweet and cold and it tasted so good going down. He didn’t realize how thirsty he was until now.

“You have never learned how to drink like an adult,” Asami opined with a sip of his whisky. 

Takaba snorted and swigged down the rest of his soda, burping loudly as he set the empty bottle down onto the floor. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve learned my lesson. No more martinis for me.” Asami’s amber eyes were on him, mocking him as usual, and Takaba could only withstand it for a few moments before he cast his own eyes downwards. Maybe it was the fact that he had just drank a whole bottle of carbonated soda on an empty stomach, or perhaps it was some optical distortion of the water, but his normally flat belly looked a little swollen. He patted his stomach and burped again.

“Are you trying to turn me on, Takaba?” came Asami's low purr. Takaba scowled but Asami went on teasing, “Making such sexy noises…and…touching yourself like that…one would think you’re asking for it.”

“Hah! Asking for what?”

Asami slowly finished his drink, his eyes caressing Takaba’s face and body. His boy looked so pale and vulnerable, even though he was putting up an insolent front, and maybe that’s why his nipples seemed so dark and delectable against his skin. He set his now empty glass on the floor next to the soda bottle and took Takaba in his arms, pulling him onto his lap so they were face-to-face and he could play with every part of Takaba easily.

“Don’t you know, my cute little Akihito? Your body tells me the truth about you.” Asami wrapped his fingers around both of their cocks, stroking them together as he put his mouth on Takaba’s nipples, first his right one, then his left, sucking and licking and nipping while Takaba cried out in short gasps.

“Ah! Ah! Don’t stop! Asamiiii!!!” The water sloshed around them, splashing over the edge of the tub but Takaba didn’t care, it all felt too, too good. “Nnngh…inside me…Asami! Put your cock inside me!”

Asami didn’t need to be told twice. He turned Takaba onto his knees, elbows on the edge of the tub, and quickly grabbed the bottle of lube kept by the side of the tub for just _this_. A generous squirt of the slippery liquid onto his cock and he was good to go, slipping the first few inches in as Takaba keened in the most delicious way. Asami held still, letting the smaller man breathe through the pain of penetration, before pressing forward again and—oh! The tight, slick heat of his sweet boy! He would never tire of it!—taking every last part of Takaba for himself.

“You’re mine, my cute little kitten. You’re mine!”

And all Takaba could do was cry out, “Daddy! Daddy!” In his heart, he said the words, those words he wanted so badly to tell Asami: “I love you! Please! Love me back!”

 


	14. Chapter 14

After years of chasing the big scoop and sparring with that pushy Mitarai over who got photo credits and the lion’s share of the measly pay from the magazine, Takaba suddenly found himself on the other end of the camera lens. Now _he_ was the target in the viewfinder and, holy hell, it sucked! All eyes were on him and he hated it. Being famous—or infamous, more accurately—was no fun at all. When Takaba had finally recovered from his hangover and actually checked the news two days after Asami’s birthday party, he was too shocked to feel anything. His ‘musical performance’ was all over the internet. He was on YouTube, the videos generating hundreds of thousands of views. He had become a meme overnight.

Even though he had heard it from his mother and best bros first, seeing it for himself was a jarring experience. He had only been on television once before in his life, when he had been interviewed by a news reporter for tackling the man who had been stalking the actress Momohara Ai. Takaba had been sort of a hero in that scenario, but this time around he was being touted as “Intellectually Disabled Boy Stuns Elite Audience” or “Why the Recorder is a Lethal Weapon” or “Photojournalist cum Musician Sinks the Titanic” or “Tokyo’s Got Talent…Not!” On the other hand, hundreds of Japanese schoolchildren were interviewed, too, and all of them were enthusiastic in their praise of the “Jack Sparrow impersonator” and his “fearless performance,” and non-conformist teens in Harajuku were highly complimentary in their assessment of Takaba’s “flamboyant, neo-Village People” fashion sensibility.

So, yeah, he didn’t know what to think. Did the good balance the bad? Was he a walking joke or the ray of sunshine to those kids slogging through another tedious music lesson in class? It wasn’t until his editor texted him with an assignment—it had been ages since he had done anything besides weddings and family portraits as a freelance photographer—that he realized he’d have to face the employees at the office, employees who had likely seen the footage leaked from Asami’s party. That’s when he called Kou out of desperation.

“Bro, I need a disguise ASAP!” Takaba pleaded. “I can’t leave the apartment without one.”

“Don’t you already have a pirate costume?” Kou replied. 

“Are you kidding? Why don’t I just paint a target on my back?” 

Later that evening, Kou showed up at the penthouse with a plastic garbage bag containing some smelly clothes, shoes, and a hat. “Sorry, Aki-kun,” Kou said with sincere apology, “it was either this or some hooker’s skanky outfit. I didn’t think you’d want to go the sexy hooker route, ‘cause…” Kou lowered his voice in the doorway, discreetly on the lookout for Asami, “we wouldn’t want you-know-who to get too excited…”

Takaba scrunched his face in dismay as he rummaged through the bag. “Why didn’t you pick something up for me at Toro?”

“You already shop there every payday,” Kou explained. “How would that be a disguise? Besides, I was low on cash.”

And that's how, the following day, Takaba found himself sporting some homeless guy’s duds instead of a streetwalker’s and prepared to venture into the public for the first time since the party. 

“Have a nice day, Takaba,” Asami said from his seat at the dining room table. Breakfast was eaten but he was still reading the latest investment reports on his iPad; he had another hour before Kirishima was coming by with the car to take him to an annual shareholder’s meeting which would likely run the entirety of the afternoon. Later that night, he had a fashion award ceremony and dinner to attend honoring Kawakubo Rei, the brilliant designer and founder of Comme des Garçons and fellow alumnus of Keio University. He had been so tempted to bring Takaba as his date, but the fallout from his party had left some of his business associates nervous, which was his intention. He wanted them on pins and needles, unable to predict his next move and beholden to him. All the video footage gathered at the party of his high-powered guests behaving in inappropriate ways was juicy enough to keep both his rivals and allies in line if need be, blackmail was such a handy thing. Tonight, though, Asami would play the role of the suave wealthy bachelor with a lovely woman on his arm, proper decorum observed to the last detail. The focus should and would be on the seventy-six-year-old doyen of avant-garde fashion and not on the scandalous behavior of Tokyo’s handsomest crime lord. “Call me if you need any help.”

“Yeah right, help my _ass_ ,” Takaba half-whined, half-snarled from the genkan where he was tying his shoelaces. “My editor finally gives me an assignment and I have to go into work disguised as a freaking _hobo_ because of you!”

Asami looked up from his tablet and appraised the outfit Takaba had donned for the day: an army green baseball cap, a red and black plaid shirt worn unbuttoned over a ratty grey (formerly white) tank top, torn jeans with an exceedingly unfortunate stain at the crotch, and a pair of old sneakers. “Isn’t that what you usually wear?” 

“Are you blind? None of this is _vintage_.” Takaba held the plaid shirt open between the tips of his fingers the same way one would hold two dirty diapers. “Kou bought these off a homeless guy outside Shinjuku Station. Now I owe him 2000 yen.” Kou claimed to have washed the clothes first but they still smelled faintly of tobacco and urine.

From his vantage point twenty feet away, Asami narrowed his eyes, wondering if he should have the penthouse fumigated for lice. “I’d say you got ripped off.”

“Whatever.” Takaba slipped on a pair of gigantic round white-framed sunglasses—just like the ones Johnny Depp wore in his movie _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ ; gosh, he loved Johnny Depp movies!—and slung his camera bag over his shoulder. He had dyed his normally bleached blond hair back to its natural black as an added precaution. No one would recognize him now. “I gotta go earn a living. See ya later, old man.”

He couldn’t hide out in Asami’s penthouse forever and he really did need to re-jumpstart his career. Working at that strip club pole-dancing for perverts was not a long-term solution by any means. Not that there was anything intrinsically wrong with it, he wasn’t judgy about what people did for a living…or was he? Wasn’t that how he had met Asami in the first place: he was hot on the trail of that wrongdoer and determined to nail him for it? And now here he was over a year later, Takaba Akihito the Avenger of Justice, living and fucking with said wrongdoer. He had sold his soul to the devil and the devil was named Asami Ryuichi.

“But I did it for love,” Takaba mumbled to himself as he stood mashed up against the crowd of people waiting for the train on one of the platforms at Shinjuku Station. He had spotted a few homeless guys begging for loose change outside and wondered which of them Kou had bought the clothes from and what the heck the guy was wearing now. Just his underwear? Then the train arrived and he was pushed into the already standing-room-only car by a white-gloved transit worker, packed in like a sardine in a tin can, his nose shoved in someone’s armpit. “Oh god,” Takaba groaned, “please don’t let me throw up.”

It wasn’t that bad, thought Takaba as he gulped in mouthfuls of air when he exited at the First Avenue Tokyo Station in Chiyoda where the magazine office was located. The savory smell from the numerous ramen shops made his stomach heave and he vomited a little, forcing himself to swallow it down for the third time. He wasn’t stuffed inside a subway car any longer and that made the vomit go down easier. He checked that his camera and lenses were still nestled safely inside his bag and trudged onward. Though it was as crowded as usual on a weekday, people gave him a wide berth, and when he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass entryway of the Tokyo Weekly Headline building, he realized why: he looked like an escapee from a mental institute, what with his huge sunglasses and crappy disheveled clothes. Oh well, at least no one was pointing at him and yelling, “Hey, it’s that guy who fucked up that song from _Titanic_!”

He made his way into the lobby, scanned his ID card at the security station, and then rode the elevator up to the fifth floor where he found his fellow photojournalist, Mitarai, flirting with the girl at the reception desk. He poked Mitarai in the back and snarked, “You better watch it, dude. Your wife might get jealous if she finds out you’re chatting up the girls in the office.” 

Mitarai whirled around and drew in a breath. It took him a second to recognize that it was Takaba standing in front of him. “What wife?” Mitarai shot back, hoping to reassure the cute girl behind the desk, a girl Takaba didn’t know because it had been months since he had been in the office for work. “I’m not even married,” Mitarai said for the benefit of the girl he had been flirting with.

“Oh?” Takaba teased. “I heard your wife was a real _dog_.” 

“Fuck you, douchebag.” Mitarai punched Takaba on the shoulder. “At least I’m not whoring for Asa—”

Takaba clamped a hand over Mitarai’s mouth and dragged him over to the waiting area. “Really? You’re going to throw me under the bus in front of some girl I don’t even know?” 

“Hah!” Mitarai laughed. “’That’s all on you, Takaba. What did you have to do to get yourself that kind of publicity? Did you have to suck Asami Ryuichi’s cock? Were you that desperate to be famous?”

People were stopping and staring at them now. Even if they didn’t know he was the ‘pirate musician’ playing the recorder at Asami’s birthday party, they were sure as heck curious about the words being exchanged in heated fashion. Thankfully, Takaba’s editor appeared at the door of his office and welcomed him with a booming voice, “Come in, my boy! It’s been too long!”

The office was in its usual disarray as Takaba took a seat in front of his editor’s messy desk, grateful that Mitarai was left to stew outside the closed door. He and Mitarai had a long history of working together on assignments and knocking heads just as much. Maybe it was just a stupid pissing contest—two rabid dogs fighting over the same bone—but he was hoping that he wouldn’t have to compete with Mitarai on whatever job his editor had in store for him this time. His ego was a little too fragile right now.

“So,” Takaba said eagerly, “what’s the deal? Do you want me to cover the Olympics?”

The way his editor’s eyebrows shot up in surprise was deflating. “Olympics? Ah…no, no, silly boy, I’ve already got Mitarai and a few other guys on it.” He chuckled heartily and patted his barrel chest. “No, I called you in because Nippon Network wants to hire you to be…uh…how do I put this…the Pied Piper of Japan.”

Well, this was more than a little disappointing _and_ confusing. “The…Pied Piper of Japan?” Takaba asked. “What the hell is that?”

“They want to send you all over Japan with a small crew and record you performing your song at random public locations and then have you interview the locals afterwards. Think of it as a travelling minstrel show-slash-tourism advertisement-slash-reality TV. Apparently this type of show has wide demographic appeal, especially among Millennials and the 80+ crowd.”

“But…” Takaba assumed that his editor was referring to the song he had played at the party, “that’s not really my song. I mean, I don’t think Ms. Dion would be too happy about me going around—”

“Nonsense!” his editor interrupted. “Haven’t you seen her tweet?” He tapped his phone and then shoved it in front of Takaba’s face and sure enough, Celine Dion had tweeted ten thumbs up emojis at #WonderBoyBlows.

“What if people throw tomatoes at me?”

“All the better! It makes for more color and drama! You’re a fast runner, aren’t you?” 

“Well, yeah, but…I’d rather cover the Olympics…”

A year ago, Takaba would have jumped at the opportunity to star in his own reality-type show. It would be the kind of crazy adventure he had always loved: he’d get to travel, meet new people, eat weird foods, see the world and expand his horizons. After a year with Asami, though, he had actually done all of those things and more. He didn’t need to be in a scripted and edited reality-type show when his own life had become one on a daily basis, and in ways no TV show could ever portray. He’d seen people getting shot right in front of his eyes…he’d fired a gun himself with intent to kill…he’d engaged in the most perverse sexual acts with…

“You have a day to think about it,” his editor said, “then the network wants a firm yes or no before they start negotiations. Don’t dilly-dally on this, Takaba. You know how this works. You have to strike when the iron is hot. There’s no such thing as the flavor-of-the-month. It’s the flavor-of-the-minute nowadays.”

Takaba stared down at the camera bag in his lap. “So…you don’t have a real assignment for me?”

“A real assignment?” His editor’s eyebrows raised again. “My boy, do you have any idea how many people would kill for this kind of opportunity? This is the sort of thing that comes around once in a lifetime. I mean, how often does a nobody like you get invited to perform at Asami Ryuichi’s birthday party? You sucked! And he didn’t even have you thrown into the bay with your feet in cement. Talk about good fortune! If it weren’t for that footage sent in anonymously, you’d still be a nobody and Nippon Network wouldn’t even know your name, much less offer you your own TV show.” 

“I guess…when you put it that way…”

Takaba trudged out of the office and headed down the hallway for the bathroom. He had promised to give an answer by the next day, but first he needed to splash some cold water on his face. He was so conflicted. Should he do this? Or, rather, did he have any reason NOT to do it? He would be traveling for weeks, maybe months, just like his father, out in the real world and _doing_ stuff instead of living a pampered existence as a crime lord’s kept lover. This endeavor wouldn’t really showcase his photojournalism skills, but maybe he could make it good anyway, make it entertaining and worthwhile somehow. He was drunk when he had bombed at the party but he knew he could practice some more and play the song the _right_ way and maybe people would invite him for dinner instead of throwing tomatoes at him. Maybe this was his chance to redeem himself and prove to Asami that he could be a success on his own.

Asami. Asami Ryuichi, the man who had become the love of his life. If he said yes to this, Takaba thought as he looked at himself in the men’s room mirror, would that mean goodbye to Asami? Would Asami even agree to let him do this and, if he did, would he still be waiting for him when he came back? Takaba knew that the man had numerous lovers before him and he wasn’t one to deny himself satisfaction. The thought of Asami being with someone else now, though, made his heart sink. He could still remember the night he had spied on that Sudou Shuu leaving Club Dracaena with Asami, Sudou’s eyes wet and pleading for Asami’s approval and Takaba could only wonder if the young and very attractive club manager was a lover that Asami had grown tired of and tossed aside for good. He doubted that Asami had ever been monogamous. Even during their year together, Asami had always taken actresses and models to all the events and formal functions he attended; in fact, this very night Asami would be escorting some hottie to a fashion awards ceremony. These women were gorgeous and Asami never came home those nights. It hadn’t bothered Takaba before. Who wouldn’t want to bed a beautiful woman, especially an insatiable pervert like Asami? But now…lately…Takaba couldn’t deny that he had become _attached_ and it wasn’t just the sex, the scorching hot sex…it was his heart and his heart didn’t want to let go. 

He felt another twinge in his belly, a sharp cramp, and then the nausea gripped him once more. “Fuck!” Takaba staggered into a stall and threw up everything he had swallowed down before. “Ah…sheesh…that’s so much better…” He mopped his face with some toilet paper, laughing and crying at the same time. His now empty stomach growled with hunger pangs and he swore down at it, “What the fuck, make up your mind!” 

There were a dozen or so ramen shops at the train station and the memory of the smells that had turned his stomach earlier now made him salivate. He’d sit down to a big bowl, extra pepper spice sprinkled on top, and mull over this recent turn of events. He was Takaba Akihito, fearless champion of justice, but he was also Takaba Akihito, fun-loving adventure dude. Maybe it was time to let _that_ Takaba out to play once more. His parents would be visiting in another week and he wanted to show them that he was still working towards success. Even if he had to confront them face-to-face about his affair with a _man_ , he could still give them something that would make them feel proud. He had been offered the opportunity of a lifetime—to host his own TV show for Nippon Network—and what parents wouldn’t be thrilled with _that_?

“I can do this,” Takaba declared aloud. Then he put one foot in front of the other, determined to make good on his word.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toro is one of many thrift stores in Shibuya in Tokyo specializing in vintage designer clothing. Even though it’s secondhand, be prepared to drop a lot of cash. Jean-Paul Gaultier and Yohji Yamamoto do not come cheap.
> 
> Also, does anyone know the name of Takaba’s editor-in-chief at the magazine? I can’t remember if Yamane-sensei ever gives that guy a name in the manga.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so freaking long I ended up breaking it into two. Blame it on the smut. The second half just needs a little tweaking before I post.

After the bowl of ramen in Chiyoda—which Takaba slurped appreciatively while mulling over the meeting with his editor—all he wanted to do was crawl into a corner and succumb to a carb induced coma. He caught the train back to Shinjuku Station before the rush hour crowds made it impossible to move or breathe; it was just past six when Takaba let himself into the penthouse. Movement out of the corner of his eye made Takaba look up from the genkan where he was toeing off his sneakers. The living room was awash in the glow cast by the lowering sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing it and the man reclining on the Le Corbusier chaise longue in a golden light. Takaba gasped in a soft breath, stunned by the sight before him.

Asami had his eyes closed on the cowhide recliner, his crisp white dress shirt fully unbuttoned and opened to reveal his smooth muscled chest and abs, his trousers unzipped and his cock rock hard and huge in his fist as he lazily stroked himself. He was wearing earbuds and listening to something on his phone, probably something porny like Kirishima reciting the net worth of his stock portfolio, thought Takaba as he stood stone still in the genkan, mesmerized by the exquisite vision of his lover masturbating. He had never seen Asami do this—jacking off in private—even though Takaba knew he probably did it all the time, just like he did when they were apart, which was often. Still…he felt a little guilty crashing the party like an uninvited guest, but what the hell was the man doing at home at this hour? Asami was never home at six in the evening and Takaba had assumed he wouldn’t be back at all that night. Asami often changed into formal wear at the office if he had an event to attend in the evening, so what the hell was he doing here? With great effort, Takaba tore his eyes away and slipped his shoes back on before opening the front door to let himself out. He’d go to the maid café on the next block and kill some time, let the man finish on his own without him gawking like a sleazy voyeur, but the sound of his lover’s voice stopped him cold in his tracks.

“Where are you going Takaba? Come. Let me hold you.”

Takaba gulped. Shit! He’d been found out! He clung to the door handle, unsure of what to do.

“What are you waiting for?” Asami asked in a gravelly voice. “Come take what you want.”

Done with gulping, Takaba was now panting, his breaths coming fast and shallow as he stared at the door. Oh god, this was ridiculous. Just listening to Asami speak to him was enough to dismantle him completely. He had planned on taking a nice long bath and thinking of ways to tell Asami that he would be leaving to travel around Japan as a TV personality. This was the _last_ thing he had expected: Asami at home and indulging in an autoerotic act. How could he tell him…how could he tell him he would be _leaving_ when his only desire was to fall into his arms and _stay_.

 _I want to stay with you forever_.

Well, if he really was going to be wandering around for weeks or months on end as the Pied Piper of Japan, then it only made sense to pack in as much sex as possible beforehand, right? Kind of like stuffing too much clothing into your one carry-on piece of luggage so you wouldn’t have to pay the fees for an extra piece of luggage, or gorging at an all-you-can-eat buffet because you didn’t know when your next meal would be.

_Gyah! Stop overthinking it!_

Takaba let go of the door handle and took off his shoes for the second time in five minutes, then made his way into the living room in a slow shuffle. As awkward as Takaba felt, none of this seemed to faze Asami at all, who continued to caress his cock as if he were merely petting something as innocuous as a cat. His complete lack of shame was impressive, almost as impressive as his beautiful cock. Without a word, Takaba dropped to his knees at the side of the chaise longue and pressed his lips to the tip of Asami’s erection in a reverent kiss. When Asami let his hand fall away to give full access, Takaba immediately darted his tongue across the slit several times before licking down the taut throbbing length, down and around his lover’s heavy balls, then back up to circle around the crown, savoring the heat and faint hint of saltiness. He heard Asami groan above him, a pleased low rumble emanating from deep within his chest, and then he felt his hands gently touching his face before moving to grasp him firmly by the shoulders, urging him into his arms and onto his lap.

“That’s right, my little kitten. Come to daddy.” Asami leaned forward, sitting face-to-face with Takaba’s legs thrown over his, Takaba’s ass between Asami’s thighs on the recliner. He brought their mouths together in a deep kiss and stole Takaba’s breath away, setting both of their hearts racing. Asami’s tongue was like the man himself: assertive, muscular, confident in its mastery of all things sensual. They tussled like that, an erotic dance of instinctual, primal desire, their hands roaming over each other in concert, peeling away clothes until they were naked.

Takaba found himself whimpering and mewling with need before he noticed that Asami was still wearing his earbuds and missing out on his steamy vocalizations. He broke their kiss with a wet gasp, wiping at the saliva that had escaped the corner of his mouth, and tugged at the cord. Asami removed one of the earbuds, an eyebrow raised in question. “What are you listening to?” asked Takaba, his annoyance clear in a tone disgracefully ragged with lust. 

Asami raised his other eyebrow, a sly grin on his lips. “The most beautiful melody in the world. Here, listen for yourself.” He held the earbud out to Takaba and watched him pop it into his right ear, his grin growing wider, his amber eyes growing dark as his pupils dilated with excitement. The look of surprise and then mortification on Takaba’s face was priceless. 

“Th-that’s…me!” Takaba shrieked. “You pervert!” He ripped the earbud out and punched Asami on the shoulder. “You recorded me having sex with you? Who the hell _does_ that? _When_ did you do that? How many times?”

“Oh, plenty of times,” Asami chuckled, thoroughly proud of himself. “I have a veritable ‘greatest hits’ compilation on my phone. How do you think I get through all those interminable board meetings?” When Takaba punched him again, Asami caught his wrist and brought his hand to his cock. “Don’t you know, Akihito, the things you do to me…the things you make me _want_ to do to you?”

“Oh…god…” Asami’s mouth on his throat rendered Takaba helpless. He was a dish of quivering coffee jelly just _asking_ to be devoured. “Asami…aahhh…” His nipples were assaulted by pinching, rubbing fingers even as love bites were sucked onto his neck, and then he was deftly turned to face the other way on the recliner, on his stomach with his ass in the air and Asami’s strong fingers spreading his buttocks apart as he rimmed him, his tongue and lips on him, sucking and lapping and _wrecking_ him completely. The world was a kaleidoscope of light bursting behind Takaba’s shut eyelids as he keened out again, his cries echoing into the high ceiling. “I can’t…I can’t…” He felt Asami’s tongue disappear, only to be replaced by his fingers, fingers slicked with lube and pushing into him, stretching him open with the kind of precision that came only from experience, from knowledge, from the desire to be better than anyone else at giving pure, unadulterated _pleasure_.

“Tell me, Akihito,” Asami murmured into his ear, “tell me what you want.”

Takaba rasped thickly, his throat dry from panting. “Ungh…your cock…Asami…your cock…”

“As you wish.”

And then Asami’s cock was nudging right at his entrance, the pressure…the pain…splitting him open like a ripe fruit, like a summer peach dripping with juice, its soft flesh giving way to the hard press of teeth biting into him, ripping him to shreds. “Ah! So big!” Tears were running down his cheeks though his eyes were squeezed shut. “So…good…ungh…aahh!” Takaba thought he would _burst_ , Asami’s cock was so huge, so hard inside him, rocking his entire body with every thrust, each snap of Asami’s hips causing another round of fireworks to explode in Takaba’s brain. He was so close, his body clenching down as he sought that final…

“Not yet, Akihito,” Asami told him, holding himself completely still with almost inhuman self-control. “Close your legs.” 

“Wha—?” Takaba felt like wailing. This was too cruel…to stop like this when he wanted to cum so bad!

“Keep your legs closed tightly,” Asami ordered, “like this.” Asami raised himself above Takaba, his cock still plunged deep inside his boy, and lifted Takaba’s legs onto the recliner. “Cross your ankles, keep your thighs together.” 

“But…” Takaba’s feet were now on the headrest, his knees bent at the first dip in the recliner, his chest on the rise at the end of the recliner. He was basically facing backwards on the chaise with Asami hovering above him in a low crouch, his hands gripping the sides of the chair by Takaba’s shoulders.

Asami leaned down and mouthed the side of Takaba’s neck, sucked in an earlobe before whispering, “Good boy.” He inched further up Takaba’s back, changing the angle of penetration, and began thrusting again, slowly at first, just long strokes in and out, from crown to root, as Takaba’s moans rose in pitch.

Takaba thought he was going to lose his mind. He usually had his legs spread wide when they fucked and, even then, he could barely accommodate the size of Asami’s cock. With his legs closed, the sensation of his lover’s dick moving inside him was indescribable, as if someone had turned on a billion more nerve endings and, holy shit, his sweet spot was receiving the most relentless abuse ever! When Asami picked up the pace, Takaba was a goner. He could feel a Grade-12 tsunami coming straight for him and he was going to ride that monumental wave all the way to heaven. “Ahhh…ahhhh!!!!” he screamed out, spurting over and over onto the cowhide cover beneath him, his cock not even touched.

“Akihito…” Asami gritted his teeth as he continued to fuck his boy through his orgasm. He pumped into him until he felt Takaba relax, and then he gave in to his own wrenching climax. And as Asami came, the only thing he saw behind his eyelids was that boy who had risen from the deck of Feilong’s casino cruise ship and clung to him, sobbing, “I was waiting for you! Why didn’t you come for me sooner?!” The look on Takaba’s face had cut him to pieces and all Asami could say in his own defense was, “Don’t toss my heart around like this.” So much more had happened since then…but what had really changed? Was Takaba still waiting for him? Would he _keep_ waiting for him? And how much longer could he contain the feelings in his own heart, a heart that Takaba held captive in his own hands without even knowing it?

“There’s only you, Akihito,” Asami thought as he pressed soothing kisses on his shoulders. “If I let you fly away, would you still choose to stay? Would you still choose _me_?”

________

The lounge chair I placed in Asami's penthouse is the [Le Corbusier Lc4 Chaise Longue](https://www.google.com/search?q=Le+Corbusier+chaise+longue&client=safari&rls=en&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiv-JXUlfbhAhWRVN8KHTsPCzMQ_AUIDygC&biw=1098&bih=632#imgrc=RyfnMH87aTa3GM:)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The iconic mid-century lounge chair mentioned in this chapter was really designed by Charlotte Perriand, but Le Corbusier—a talented but very egotistical bastard during a period when women were almost never acknowledged for their work—was given sole credit for the design of that chair for the longest time. 
> 
> Japanese is a very indirect language and deeply poetic. When a character in a manga says, “I want to embrace you” or “I want to hold you,” what that means is, “I want to make love to you” or, in coarser terms, “I want to fuck you.” Similarly, when Asami tells Takaba, “Don’t toss my heart around” on Feilong’s casino cruise ship, what he really means is, “Don’t break my heart any more than you already have. I can’t take it!”
> 
> Coffee jelly is a Japanese dessert made with espresso and gelatin. Heavy cream or condensed milk can be added for extra richness and deliciousness.


	16. Chapter 16

Asami’s date for tonight’s fashion award ceremony and dinner was the twenty-four-year-old heiress to one of the richest families in Singapore. Takaba had never been to Singapore, but he knew it was the Abu Dhabi of Southeast Asia, renown for its architectural wonders and wealth. And its beautiful women. This particular woman was not only beautiful—often seen in the pages of _Vogue_ , _Elle_ , and _Jalouse_ as the face of L’eau d’Issey, or modeling for the houses of Chanel and Dior—she was educated at Oxford University, held a MPhil in Economics, spoke five languages, and had completed the Dakar Rally _twice_. The only reason Takaba wasn’t flipping his shit was because this particular woman, who went by the single name Colette, was known to have amorous eyes for the _female_ sex. Although, if anyone could make a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian crave dick, it was Asami Ryuichi…

“Don’t wait up for me.” 

Takaba watched Asami dress after their shower, each article of clothing donned with easy grace. He had seen Asami dress himself for over a year and each time the sight of the man slipping on his trousers or fastening a pair of cufflinks captivated him to the point of open-mouthed gawking; the man’s hotness simply would _not_ die down with time. In fact, the more Takaba _looked_ , the more he _wanted_ , the more he _needed_. It wasn’t until Asami walked over to the dresser in just his shirt and boxer briefs—he would be wearing a formal ascot instead of a bowtie just to be cheeky—that his casual remark set off alarm bells in Takaba’s brain.

 _Don’t wait up for me_.

What the fuck? Wasn’t his date a lesbian? Was Asami planning on leading her into bi territory tonight? Asami, after all, swung any and every which way as far as Takaba knew. And this Colette…she was young, rich, smart, successful, super beautiful…everything about her was an ‘asset,’ a ‘plus,’ what Kirishima would approvingly deem ‘in the black’ in the ledger book. Asami’s low, relaxed voice momentarily silenced the banshee screaming inside Takaba’s head. 

“Why don’t you choose for me, hmm? Takaba?” Asami was looking at him with those amber eyes of his, an ascot held in each of his hands. “Which one do you prefer: the red or the blue?”

“Um…the red…” Yeah, he was seeing red alright. Takaba scrambled off the bed, fighting to keep his composure, calling over his shoulder as he headed out of the room at light speed, “Sheesh, I’m starving. I’m gonna go nuke some of the leftover yakisoba.”

He could hear Asami whistling a tune as he wobbled on weak knees down the hallway, his throat constricted as he fought back tears. What was it? Anger? Fear? Disappointment? Betrayal? Once in the kitchen, he turned on the faucet full blast and stuck his head in the fridge. He was wearing an old tank top and cotton shorts and god oh god what was he doing? They had just had phenomenal sex and he was going to tell Asami all about the exciting job opportunity that had fallen into his lap but how could he say anything now when Asami had told him, “Don’t wait up for me” because that could only mean he was going to fuck Colette all night long and Takaba…he’d have to be okay with that. He’d have to greet Asami the next morning and pretend like his heart hadn’t been put through a meat grinder one hundred, a thousand, a million fucking times!

“What am I going to do?” Takaba sobbed into the bottles of champagne and sake and beer. Fuck! He had to get his shit together! He couldn’t let Asami see him like this, he would _never_ let him live it down. Besides, would a hot babe like Colette fall apart so easily? No…because lesbians weren’t cheating bastards like a certain somebody! Lesbians didn’t have to put up with a man who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants! They had sweet, loving, rainbow colored relationships where no one ever got hurt! “God, I wish I were a lesbian…” As soon as Takaba said it, though, the absurdity of the statement was like a bucket of cold water in his face. Just what he needed. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” He grabbed the bowl of leftover yakisoba, ripped off the plastic wrap, and shoved it into the microwave, punched ‘reheat.’ Then he stood over the sink and washed his face, turned off the tap and dried off with a dish towel. He was innocently shoveling the hot buckwheat noodles into his mouth and burning his tongue when a fully dressed Asami appeared at the kitchen door.

“My, my, you really are hungry,” Asami observed with a smile.  He sauntered over and put his arms around Takaba, who remained hunched over the counter, his face buried in the bowl. “But then again, sex always makes you hungry, doesn’t it?” When Takaba continued to wolf down the noodles, Asami kissed him on the top of his messy hair and whispered, “My cute little Akihito.”

“You better go,” Takaba finally said, his mouth full of food, “before I get sauce all over your tux.”

“Hmm…” Asami gave him a final squeeze and then he released Takaba from his embrace, and Takaba had to swallow hard past the lump in his throat. “Have a good night, kitten.”

He heard the front door close. The penthouse was silent save for the crash of the ceramic bowl shattering on the countertop when Takaba finally gave in to his fury. He was so fucking angry, the emotions shaking him from top to bottom the same way his orgasm had rocked his whole body only an hour ago. This was nuts! This was not like him _at all_. Since when had he become such a possessive, insecure, needy lunatic? He was a grown _man_ , for shit’s sake, not some weepy hormonal teenaged girl! And as a _man_ , he needed to get piss drunk and stupid. Yeah. He was going to be a TV host and he needed to celebrate his good fortune with a best bro who wouldn’t cheat on him with some gorgeous female specimen.

“Hey, Kou? It’s me.” Takaba could hear people chattering in the background.

“Aki-kun! Dude, what’s up?”

“You wanna meet up for drinks? My treat.”

“Tonight? Ah, shit, no, I can’t. I’m still at work.” 

Takaba looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock on a Friday night and most offices closed by five or six on a weekday. Of course, Kou worked for an animation studio and long, erratic hours were the norm. 

“We’re on deadline,” Kou explained, “and we’re way behind schedule, as usual, so me and the guys will be here all night. Sorry, dude. How about we have lunch tomorrow, say around two? We can go to Mouton for omurice. They have that white cheese sauce there.”

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Takaba laughed, the false mirth ringing atonal in his ears. “We’ll catch up then.”

“Hey, how did that meeting go today? Did your editor give you something juicy to tackle?” 

“Ah…yeah…sort of…I’ll tell you at lunch tomorrow. Good luck with the all-nighter.” 

Takaba grabbed a bottle of Asahi Super Dry out of the fridge and settled onto the living room sofa, switched on the TV and sighed, idly rubbing his full belly as he surfed the channels. Just talking briefly with Kou had settled his anxieties a little. His life really wasn’t so bad if he thought about it rationally. In fact, he had a lot to be grateful for: he had good friends, parents who loved him, a boyfriend who treated him like a prince when he wasn’t driving him insane with doubt. And who knows? Maybe Asami wasn’t going to spend the night fucking that heiress. Maybe he had some traitors or enemies he needed to torture and dismember in some warehouse after the award ceremony. Maybe he had to fly over to Malaysia and run a quality check at some meth lab of his. Maybe he was going to spend the night smoking cigars and drinking whisky at Club Sion with his underworld cronies, negotiating terms for an illegal arms shipment. It was all just another ordinary day in the life of Asami Ryuichi: fucking, socializing, murdering, making filthy lucre.

“Asami…what do I even mean to you?” The beer was cold and delicious going down with just a hint of bitterness from the hops. “Do I mean anything at all?”

A cooking show started and ended and Takaba couldn’t recall what the chef had made over the course of that half hour. Then the nine o’clock news came on with a live feed from the forty-fifth floor of the Ritz-Carlton in Tokyo. A reporter dolled up in a satin dress was standing by the ballroom’s windows, a panoramic view of the glittering city spread out behind her with Mount Fuji somewhere in the distance, speaking excitedly of the event honoring one of Japan’s most renowned fashion designers. The camera panned away from the reporter, alighting on various attendees: actors, models, designers, entertainment and business moguls, politicians…crime lords. There he was, Asami looking breathtakingly handsome in his tux and red paisley ascot, and on his arm was Colette, as exotic as a bird of paradise in a shimmering gown made entirely of iridescent feathers. She wore no jewelry. She needed none to sparkle like a precious gemstone next to Asami. Takaba’s mouth hung open. He couldn’t deny that they made the most stunning couple and…wasn’t she twenty-four…just like him?

“How am I supposed to compete with _that_?” Takaba yelled at the TV. “Fuck!” 

The prospect of leaving Tokyo—even if it meant getting pelted with tomatoes by unfriendly locals elsewhere—was sounding better and better, especially if it prevented him from seeing Asami out on the town with someone way above Takaba’s own station. If he made a name for himself, then he could level the playing field, right? Maybe one day _he_ would be the one going to an awards ceremony dressed in a tux with a rich beautiful heiress on his arm instead of sitting at home pining for Asami’s attention. Oh god, had he turned into that Sudou Shuu? Was that going to be him, chasing after Asami and begging for his favor like a piece of garbage that refused to stay in the trashbin? No, no no, that would truly, utterly BLOW. Takaba slugged down the rest of the beer, went into the kitchen and grabbed two more bottles. Asami wasn’t coming home that night, so he’d get as drunk as he wanted and figure things out in the morning.

“I’m definitely taking that assignment,” Takaba said to the TV when he settled back onto the sofa. “I’m definitely saying ‘yes.’”

*** 

He must have slept like the dead, because when Takaba awoke, Asami was nestled behind him in bed, his arm around his waist. What was it then, eight or nine in the morning? He didn’t even remember crawling into bed at all…he _did_ remember lying down on the sofa with the TV on and some cheesy old sci-fi movie playing. “What time is it?” Takaba mumbled. The room was dark, the heavy curtains closed. The clock on the nightstand read two-thirty. Two-thirty? Two-thirty in the afternoon? Holy shit! He had totally overslept! He felt Asami’s arm draw him tighter against his chest. 

“Shh…go back to sleep,” Asami murmured into the back of Takaba’s head.

“Go back to sleep? It’s fucking two-thirty! I was supposed to meet Kou for lunch! Oh man, he must be wondering where the hell I am.” The more Takaba struggled to get out of bed, the more Asami tightened his hold on him.

“Will you calm down? It’s two-thirty in the _morning_ , Takaba. Do you need glasses?”

“What?” Takaba rubbed his eyes—no fucking way did he need glasses—and looked at the clock again. Sure enough, it read AM and not PM. “What the…?” Takaba switched on the lamp and turned to face the man lying naked in bed with him. “Why are you home? You told me not to wait up for you.”

“And you didn’t. What a good boy you are.”

“But…weren’t you going to…I mean…I don’t get it. Why did you say ‘Don’t wait up for me’ if you were planning on coming home?” Asami was resting his head on one arm folded on his pillow, the intoxicating scent of his cologne making Takaba want to bury his face into Asami’s neck, his chest, his exposed armpit, just breathe him in and _writhe_ against him.

“Because I didn’t want you to wait up for me,” Asami repeated flatly, like a math teacher saying ‘1 + 1 = 2’ to the class dolt for the tenth time. He pulled Takaba into both arms and stroked his hair, kissed his forehead. “You haven’t been feeling well lately…and a growing boy needs his rest, doesn’t he?”

“I’m not a kid!” Takaba hissed, scowling into Asami’s face, but he was nothing more than a cat raising the fur on its back to a wolf.

“That’s right. You’re my cute little kitten.”

“Stop it! You are _so_ embarrassing!” Takaba laid his cheek onto Asami’s chest, letting the warmth and scent of the man pass through to him in soothing waves. “So…how come you didn’t spend the night with her? I saw you guys on TV. She’s really beautiful.”

“Indeed. There are plenty of beautiful women in the world.”

Takaba played with one of Asami’s nipples, rubbing the pad of his index finger round and round as it hardened under his caress. “Yeah…and you can have your pick of them.”

“Perhaps.” Asami trailed his fingers up and down Takaba’s spine, raising gooseflesh in their wake. He felt Takaba’s cock twitching against his hip, his own cock engorging quickly against Takaba’s thigh.

“Oh ho!” Takaba teased, “what modesty! Are you really Asami? Because the real Asami wouldn’t say, ‘Perhaps.’ The real Asami would say, ‘Of course!’ Did some alien steal your body, take over your mind?” Takaba stared into Asami’s eyes in playful challenge, but what he saw gazing back at him was something he didn’t recognize. Nobody had ever looked at him quite like _that_ and it made him feel shy and foolish. It was the same feeling that had gripped him when he had walked in on Asami masturbating earlier, the feeling that he had accidentally stumbled upon a deeply guarded secret. _I’m not supposed to see this_. Except this time, Asami wasn’t hiding anything, and it was more than a little scary. “Don’t look at me like that,” Takaba mumbled, a hot blush rising up his cheeks as he cast his eyes downward.

“Not so brave anymore, Akihito? Are you done telling me who I am and what I can do?” Asami reached down and lifted Takaba’s chin. “Look at me.” He waited until Takaba met his gaze once more, this time with far less swagger. “I never had any intention of bedding her, and not because she likes to play around with other women. For your information, she likes playing with men just as much. She’s a fine girl from an elite family. She’s beautiful, smart, funny, talented, in the prime of her life. Any man would be lucky to have her.” He paused, enjoying the angry blush now tinging Takaba’s ears and neck. “But I’m not just any man, am I, Akihito?"

Takaba wanted to scream, “Damn straight! You’re a Class A pompous jerk-off and you’re _mine_!” but he set his jaw and held his tongue. He wasn’t going to give Asami the satisfaction of knowing how jealous and possessive he had become, not when he had to listen to Asami sing the praises of Miss Universe.

Asami let go of Takaba’s chin and grasped his hand instead, brought it to his lips and kissed his palm with adoration. “And she…could never hold a candle to you.”

After five wide-eyed blinks, Takaka still couldn’t believe that this was the _real_ Asami. No. Some alien creature had definitely wormed its way into Asami’s hunky body and was moving the man’s lips and saying those ridiculous words. “What is wrong with you?” Takaba asked. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“Can’t a man give his boy a compliment?” 

Takaba thought back to the helicopter crash months ago. Who knows what had really happened? He had blacked out when the chopper went down and when he had come to, Asami was unconscious in the pilot’s seat. Perhaps the old man had sustained brain damage that wasn’t visible on the X-rays and CAT scans that had been ordered for both of them after their rescue off the island. That was really the only plausible explanation for Asami foregoing a piece of smoking hot rich pussy in order to spoon in bed with him instead. He had never done this before, and all that mushy talk…it was beyond unnerving! 

“Seriously…Asami, you’re giving me the creeps.”

Asami reached over Takaba and turned off the lamp. More often than not, they had sex with the lights on because Takaba (rightly) assumed that Asami, being a shameless pervert, liked to watch himself fucking him. But tonight, with the heavy drapes already drawn, the bedroom was cast in near total darkness.

“Don’t be afraid, Akihito,” Asami whispered as he sucked a firm wet kiss onto Takaba’s neck. “Daddy’s got you.” In one smooth motion, he rolled atop his boy, nudging his legs apart with his own and ground their hips together. The sensation of skin-on-skin contact was heightened by the lack of sight, and when he felt Takaba reach up and card his fingers through his hair, heard him breathing him in and sighing with desire, he knew that this is where he wanted to be. Here, with his cute little Akihito, and nowhere else.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L’eau d’Issey is Issey Miyake’s premier fragrance line, and the one for men is a favorite of mine. It smells so good on a guy. For me, it’s the next best scent ever since Kenzo stopped making fragrances for men.
> 
> Yakisoba is a fried noodle dish. It is rather addictive.
> 
> Omurice is a Japanese omelet stuffed with rice and other goodies. It’s usually decorated with ketchup or served with some other kind of savory sauce.


	17. Chapter 17

Asami casually lit a cigarette—his fifth in what had begun as a pleasantly mundane Saturday before derailing unexpectedly—and took a long, leisurely drag, his face wiped clean of any expression. While Kirishima often let his emotions dance across his bespectacled visage like the Rockettes kicking their heels on stage at Radio City Music Hall, Suoh was a master at maintaining a demeanor mimicking stone and Asami was no less talented in that regard. That talent was on full display as Asami pulled the taste of the tobacco deep into his lungs like a sexy unfeeling robot. Yeah, on the _surface_ he was Mr. Ultra Cool Dude, but _beneath_ it all his meal of bacon, pan fried toast and sunny side up eggs was threatening to revolt inside his churning stomach, and not because Takaba had decided to make him a Western-style breakfast.

“No tamagoyaki for you this morning; my ass is too sore!” Takaba had shouted from the kitchen, the meaning behind his lover’s words still mystifying him. They had only fucked once since he had come home from the fashion award ceremony the night before, and it had been a relatively quick one at that. They had done it ‘missionary’ style, the most ho-hum position, but Asami had wanted to kiss his boy through it. Yes, he wanted to kiss Takaba as he fucked into him, kiss him and have him moan into his ear with every thrust. Towards the end, he had hooked the backs of Takaba’s knees onto his shoulders and pounded into him, driving them both to orgasm together. It was at moments like this that Asami felt himself falling and flying at the same time. It was so disorienting, even painful, to lose oneself so thoroughly in another. He didn’t say his name: Akihito. Instead, he had listened to Takaba crying out, “Asami! A-Asamiii!” and then without prompting, “Daddy!” and it was all he ever wanted to hear from his fiery kitten. Afterwards, he had licked up every drop of Takaba’s sweet-salty cum and kissed him again, sweeping his tongue into his mouth so his darling boy could taste himself. _Be mine_ , Asami had thought. _Stay with me forever_. When he awoke the next morning with his usual stiffy, Takaba was already in the kitchen, pots and pans clanging, and so Asami had jacked it nice and quick in the shower, planning to work an abbreviated day at the office so he and Takaba could spend an evening together. He’d feed him, then eat him out, stuff him full of cock and cum all night long…like a good daddy should. 

And like a good daddy, Asami didn’t even frown when he was served his Western-style breakfast because Takaba looked utterly adorable in his tight little shorts and T-shirt with the words “Griffith Did Nothing Wrong” in sans serif and when he pulled his boy into his lap for a ‘thank you’ kiss, Takaba still smelled of sex and, damn it all, Asami was ready to take him right on the dining room table. 

“Get off me!” Takaba had protested, slapping at Asami’s groping hands. “You pervert octopus!” He squirmed and shoved and squealed before declaring, “Will you stop it? I have something important to tell you.”

“Oh?” Asami nipped at Takaba’s ear, only to have Takaba grasp his face with both hands, his expression weirdly serious. He let his boy wriggle out of his lap and watched him take his seat across the table from him. “Well?” Asami prodded when all Takaba did was push the food around on his plate. “What do you have to tell me that’s so important?” He dug into his own meal, hunger and happiness overtaking Asami in equal measure because he was pretty darn sure he knew what was coming. He had set the trap and now it was sprung and his prize was in his grasp…

“You know that meeting I had with my editor yesterday?” Takaba finally mumbled while he crunched on a piece of toast.

Asami continued to eat, all super nonchalant. “Yes.” He topped up his cup of coffee, enjoying the fact that Takaba wasn’t able to maintain eye contact with him. His balls must be pumping out extra loads of testosterone because Asami had never felt so dominant, so unbeatable, so certain of victory. He’d survived attacks by trained assassins, outsmarted ingenious criminal psychopaths, outmaneuvered wily underhanded competitors, but this was going to be his biggest triumph: the prey he had hunted for so long was going to be his. “Did he give you an assignment?”

“Not directly, no.” The magazine that Takaba freelanced for was a journal focusing on hard hitting editorials and stories about politics and social issues, as opposed to the fluffy lifestyle or celebrity-centric rags. It was that fact—that he was covering subjects that had substance and relevance—that made it so worthwhile for Takaba because, let’s face it, the pay was almost non-existent. And yet, he’d be a fool to turn down this opportunity, even if it went against everything that had motivated and inspired him in the past. It would likely be the most lucrative job he had ever had, though it wasn’t about the money per se; it was about his pride, it was about standing on his own two feet and saying, “I did this. I’m a man. I earned it. I deserve respect.” He could finally prove to Asami that he was someone worthy to stand by his side, a man who had a real career rather than chasing the occasional per diem photographer’s fee. And so he stammered his way through, working himself into a froth of bubbling, hollow enthusiasm as he recounted the conversation he had with his editor-in-chief about Nippon Network wanting to hire him as a TV host for a ‘travel’ show that would take him all over the country. “They want a verbal answer today,” Takaba said. His plate was clean and so was Asami’s and the two men finally locked eyes across the table.

That’s when Asami lit his first cigarette of the morning, his belly full and his body relaxed, his voice calm and confident when he asked, “And what will you tell them?”

“Yes,” Takaba replied.

“Excuse me?” There was the slightest pause—Takaba had spoken so quietly and he must have heard wrong—before Asami leaned forward in his chair. “What did you say?”

Takaba cleared his throat and said, louder, “Yes. I’m going to tell them I’ll do it.”

Asami took another drag when he realized his mouth was hanging open a millisecond too long in shock. It was a gesture so smooth he doubted Takaba would notice that he was completely unprepared for the atomic bomb that had just detonated in his face. To say that things weren’t panning out the way Asami had predicted would be the understatement of the century. When he released that footage of Takaba performing at his birthday party to the media, he had fully anticipated the interest it would garner. It took only a brief phone call to the president of Nippon Network to set up the ‘offer’ that would be made to Takaba, one that would be undeniably tempting to most attention seekers but stupidly offensive to someone of Takaba’s high standards. More than that, it would be a job that would take him away from his side and Asami was convinced that Takaba would choose him instead of fifteen fleeting minutes of fame. Perhaps it was hubris to ‘test’ him this way, but Asami couldn’t believe he had misread the situation so badly. He was so certain that they were ready to commit to each other—whatever that meant—and he believed that he had taken the steps necessary to prove his feelings for Takaba. My god, he had held a baby _twice_ for him; what more did a man have to do to show his love? Now, all he needed was for Takaba to do the same, that is, all Takaba had to say was, “I’m staying.” Just that; not even “I love you.” It would have been enough for Asami to hear Takaba say, “I’m staying” and that would have been as good as “I love you.”

But to his utter amazement and dismay, there was none of that. Takaba saying that he was going to _accept_ the job offer, as if it were a _good_ thing, was beyond Asami’s comprehension. After everything they had been through, the idea that Takaba would leave him now was worse than death. And to be a reality show host! Not that Asami would or could admit to being completely devastated with disappointment. He was the one who had overstepped and created this whole fiasco in the first place, and now he could only acquiesce for the sake of appearances. He had his own pride to protect; he couldn’t reveal that he was betting and raising, and then going all-in on what he thought were pocket aces when in fact he had nothing! He had overplayed his hand in the worst way. 

“I’ll send Kirishima with you to negotiate the terms of your contract,” Asami declared somberly, like a judge proclaiming his verdict. He lit another cigarette, grateful for the tobacco and nicotine and if cancer could cure the pain in his heart, then he’d take that too! _Keep your shit together, goddamn it!_ He could always pay Takaba a visit no matter where the boy was, Asami told himself, yes, he’d pay him surprise visits and god help him if he ever found out someone else had touched his boy because there would be limbs missing, limbs and other appendages, viscera and gelatinous organs in places they shouldn’t be…he felt his left eyelid barely twitch and willed himself to exhale slowly through his nose.

“No, no way. I don’t need your help,” Takaba replied, oblivious to Asami’s murderous thoughts about his imaginary lovers. He started gathering the dirty dishes, his own head spinning with confusion. How could Asami possibly be okay with this? Didn’t it bother him that they’d be apart? Then again, this was the same man who had sent him off to a monastery after the penthouse had been wrecked and wouldn't even tell him where he was or what he was doing or if they'd ever see each other again. This was also the same man who had told him on the island after the helicopter crash, “I won’t ever let you go again…so don’t leave me, Akihito.” And here he was, letting him leave. What the fuck was going on?

“You don’t know a thing about contracts, you don’t understand that kind of legalese and don’t pretend that you do,” Asami stated, the crumbs on the sides of Takaba’s mouth making him want to lick them right off his face. “Those bastards will have a field day with an idiot like you. Kirishima will do the talking.”

“Why can’t you butt out of—”

“Kirishima is an expert on bullshit.” _An expert like me_ , Asami thought. “No one cuts through it better than he can.”

“But—”

“It’s either Kirishima or I send Kuroda instead.”

“Fuck, no! I’ll take megane over that jerk-off any day.”

“Fine. Kirishima will go with you then. You just keep your big mouth shut and follow Kirishima’s lead, you hear me, Takaba?”

He had to concede. Kirishima was a pompous ass towards him, but Kuroda was even worse. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Takaba brought the dirty dishes into the kitchen. He couldn’t believe that Asami wasn’t putting his foot down and saying ‘no’ to the whole thing altogether. He had always bossed him around in the past, not that Takaba would ever listen to him, but he didn’t want to do this, he didn’t want to be a traveling minstrel playing “My Heart Will Go On” on his recorder to the amusement of strangers, and he wouldn’t do it if Asami were against the idea. For the first time, Takaba actually wanted that domineering bastard to stampede all over him and take away his freedom of choice, but if he were honest with himself, then he’d have to admit that Asami had never actually prevented him from doing whatever he wanted. Asami would warn him, maybe even try to frighten him off of whatever scoop he was recklessly pursuing, but he would never lock him in a cage like a prisoner, like Feilong had done. And if he got himself into hot water, Asami was always there to rescue him. But this time, he’d jumped off the deep end and now he’d have to sink or swim on his own.

*** 

“Why don’t you just be honest with him?” Kou said.

They were at their favorite omurice restaurant four hours later for lunch but Takaba was too depressed to eat anything besides the calorie laden white cheese sauce. He let his best friend finish the rest of his dish while he nursed an iced coffee loaded with six sticks of sugar. Asami had left for the office after breakfast, giving him a kiss at the door as if a chasm the size of the Pacific Ocean hadn’t opened up between them, and told him he’d be working late. Once again, Asami had said, “Don’t wait up for me,” and this time Takaba figured he should take it literally. The fact that Asami didn’t appear the least bit angry is what crushed Takaba. “I can’t believe he’s not even going to fight for me,” Takaba muttered, then chewed absently on his straw.

“Fight for you?” Kou shook his head. He was no relationship guru, but he recognized a pair of idiots in love when he saw one. “You’re the one saying you wanted this TV gig. If you’re gonna play him, then he has every right to play you, too.” At work, Kou and the other guys had just completed the first season of a hot shoujo anime and he knew all about convoluted romances crippled by miscommunication. Plus, he was addicted to Korean television dramas that featured the most soap operatic love affairs, stuff way more interesting and outlandish than his own rather ordinary trysts with older women at the host club where he worked on weekends occasionally.

“The only reason I said I wanted to do it is because I thought he wouldn’t let me!” protested Takaba.

“That’s lame,” Kou replied. “If he said ‘no,’ then you’d do it just to spite him. When do you ever listen to him anyway?” 

“This time,” Takaba insisted. “ _This_ time, I would have!”

“Oh, well, let that be a lesson to you. I’m stuffed.” Kou pushed the second empty plate away and patted his belly, seconds away from becoming completely comatose after sitting in front of a computer for eighteen hours straight. Takaba’s sad face made him groan with exasperation. “Seriously, bro, don’t do that. I can’t stand to see you so bummed out. I need to go home and sleep for a couple hours, but why don’t we meet up tonight and go dancing. We can hit that club you like, the one in Roppongi that we went to for your birthday. Maybe you’ll meet some hottie to take your mind off of the old man.”

Takaba’s eyes lit up. Asami _did_ tell him not to wait up and he didn’t want to sit home moping alone again while Asami just might be banging someone else. “What kind of hottie do you imagine for me?”

“Mmm…” Kou squinted up at the ceiling, thinking hard, and then suggested, “How about Kiryū?”

“He’s a fucking videogame character.”

“Yeah, but he’s a hottie and he’s sorta your type.”

“My type?”

“Yeah, tall, dark and handsome, yakuza badass, likes wearing suits…” 

“Asami is _not_ yakuza.”

“Whatever. A guy like Kiryū would definitely tap your kinda ass…”

There was no point to this conversation, thought Takaba, no point to his life or reality. His friend was sleep deprived and pairing him up with fictional characters while his own lover was seemingly content to let him go without blinking an eye, and in a few days his parents would be visiting him and for what? Should he even bother introducing Asami to them when they were heading in two different directions? Were they even going to stay lovers at all? He paid the bill after Kou left to go home for some much-needed shuteye and sipped the rest of his iced coffee. As he slurped the last of it, his phone dinged with a text from his editor-in-chief: _What’s your answer?_   Takaba texted back: _I’ll do it_.

______

In case you're curious, here's [Kiryū](https://www.google.com/search?q=kiryu+kazuma&client=safari&rls=en&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwijnf3Q6LTiAhXtc98KHW7GBgAQ_AUIDigB&biw=1120&bih=584#imgrc=8PAHwvPEb_5qCM:)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an inside joke at the end of this chapter: the “hottie” that Kou refers to is a character named Kiryū Kazuma from the “Yakuza” videogame series and what makes this fictional yakuza hunk doubly badass is that his seiyū is Kuroda Takaya, the same man who voices Asami Ryuichi from the Viewfinder OVA and the character of Raoul Am from the 2012 OVA remake of Ai no Kusabi. You may now begin salivating.
> 
> This chapter was a weird one for me, which is saying a lot since most of my chapters are totally weird. I sat down and wrote it and what came out was nothing like I thought it would be. Go figure. I’m still a little puzzled and now I don’t have a clue how things are going to play out when Takaba’s parents roll into town in the next chapter. I think this is a result of my getting plastered recently, falling down and hitting my head (just kidding, sorta), and now I cannot think logically at all…or, more likely, it’s because the final season of Game of Thrones was so abysmal that it made the 2016/2017 anime version of “Berserk” strangely entertaining rather than appallingly bad. Is anyone buying these excuses?


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said in the previous chapter that Takaba’s parents would roll into town in this chapter. I was wrong. In my attempt to set up the scene, this chapter got longer and longer as I succumbed to my self-indulgent ways, so I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until the next chapter to see what happens (unless something else gets me sidetracked).

It was Cosplay Nite at the club in Roppongi and Takaba was drunk on the dance floor dressed like Rohan, midriff exposed and determined to have a blast even if Kou was not all that convincing as Kakyoin in his ratty old school uniform and acting like a mother hen. They were supposed to be celebrating Takaba’s new job prospect, but Kou knew better than to get wasted alongside his best friend. At times like this, one of them had to stay sober and tonight Kou was the one babysitting. It was either that or be killed, at least that is what Kirishima had told him when the man paid him a very unexpected visit at his apartment earlier that evening. The loud pounding on his door and the incessant buzzing of the intercom is what roused Kou from his nap. He opened the door dressed in the same rumpled shirt and pair of boxers he had been wearing for two days, only to face a scowling man in an expensive three-piece suit and glasses. Kou thought he might be in for a beating, but it turned out he was only in trouble by association, because the man who muscled his way inside without even bothering to say “hello” was clearly angry with Takaba.

“How dumb is that little brat?” Kirishima asked rhetorically, toeing off his shoes before stepping into the small studio apartment as if he lived there. He made a beeline for the fridge and yanked it open with an annoyed grunt. “Kids these days…don’t you have anything decent to drink?” After pushing aside the Ramune melon soda, Kirishima grabbed a bottle of Pocari Sweat and drank it down in one gulp.

“Uh…” Kou felt very underdressed in his own home. He’d met this man before since he’d often interrupt their late night gaming sessions to take Takaba back to the penthouse. Takaba always referred to him as ‘Glasses Guy’ but Kou knew he was Asami’s personal assistant, a man named Kirishima who seemed to be Takaba’s nemesis. The feeling was mutual, apparently, because Kirishima had taken six steps away from the fridge and was now standing in the living room with his hands on his hips, ranting about Takaba ruining his boss’ life and therefore his own life, too.

“And what are _you_ going to do about it?” Kirishima demanded.

“Huh?” Kou looked around the room, wondering what part of the conversation he had missed. 

“What are you going to do about Takaba?” Kirishima asked again. “He’s _your_ friend. Talk some sense into him.”

Kou threw his hands up in the air. “About what?”

“About wanting to do this stupid TV thing! Surely he can’t be serious!” Kirishima raked his fingers through his hair, mussing it up for the hundredth time that day before smoothing it back neatly in place.

“Oh…that…” Kou nodded, “yeah, well…he said he only agreed to it because he figured Asami-san would never let him do it in the first place. In fact...” Kou scratched sheepishly at his elbow, rather embarrassed that he might be saying too much. Takaba had a lot of pride and hated to appear weak, but...he had to bite the bullet and put his best bro out of his misery. “…he was really disappointed that Asami-san didn’t stop him. He said he couldn’t believe that Asami-san wasn’t going to fight to keep him.” Kou hoped that his polite use of an honorific when referring to Takaba’s lover would prevent Kirishima from using him as a punching bag. The way Takaba addressed both Asami and Kirishima with the rudest level of speech was enough to make Kou blush.

Kirishima was stunned for various reasons, pleasantly so, but then he straightened his shoulders, quick to protect his boss’ reputation. “Asami-sama doesn’t have the time or inclination to engage in stupid games like this. If Takaba wants to play hard-to-get like some teenaged girl, then maybe he should go back to high school. What immaturity! Still…Asami-sama is generous, too much so in my opinion. Perhaps there is a way to smooth things over…”

“He’s really in love with him, you know.” Now Kou scratched at his other elbow, the embarrassment making him itch all over but, goddamn it, he was on a roll. “Takaba…he’s really in love with Asami-san. I mean, he doesn’t even know if this makes him gay or whatever, hehe…but, yeah, he’s really in love, even if it means getting an ass full of dick all the time. He just…he doesn’t know if…um…if…” Oh shit, had he gone too far with the whole cupid act? 

“Are all young people this confused? There is no hope for the future.” Despite his genuine frustration, Kirishima’s forehead relaxed the slighted bit. This was the first piece of good news he’d had all day, an exhausting day spent saving his own neck and his boss’ sanity. Asami had been livid when he showed up at the office. They were supposed to go over the latest quarterly earnings report but all Asami did was ‘rearrange’ the furniture in his executive suite by tossing chairs from one end of the room to the other in a rare fit of semi-public rage. That was fun. Ducking a leather chair on metal casters wasn’t all that easy because Asami’s aim was very good, but Kirishima was agile even in a three-piece suit and tie and only suffered a bruise on his forearm when he batted away the ashtray that came at him. Fortunately for him, the nightly cleaning crew had emptied and wiped it clean, so his clothes remained unspoiled but, damn, ten pounds of cut crystal flying at high speed through the air could put a ton of hurt on bone. 

Kirishima was an astute man; he wouldn’t have gotten this far in life if he wasn’t, so he was as much in shock as Asami over Takaba’s announcement that morning. His boss’ meltdown in the office was his fault, because it was Kirishima’s idea that had been presented to the president of Nippon Network, a suggestion so ridiculously awful that he was certain that Takaba would turn it down immediately. Takaba was a pain in the ass in Kirishima’s opinion, but the boy was proud and bent on ‘doing good’ and ‘making a difference’ and he couldn’t imagine the kid agreeing to participate in such a meaningless farce. Okay, what had happened at the birthday party was a shocker, but Takaba had genuinely meant well and Asami had actually liked it, so Kirishima had dodged that bullet, but now this!

At the time, it hadn’t sounded like a bad idea. Asami wanted to be the snake in the Garden of Eden offering his Eve the forbidden fruit, as if he could prove to himself that Takaba would never fall for such lurid temptation. In their business, sincerity was such a rare commodity and Kirishima could understand why it was so important to Asami that he harbor no doubts that the boy was loyal to him alone. To hear Takaba say he would take the job—eat the shiny apple!—must have been beyond devastating to a man of Asami’s pride. Kirishima wasn’t even sure what to do about the rings Asami had specially ordered. They were sitting in Kirishima’s safe at his apartment, ready for Asami to present to Takaba in case Takaba’s parents had any reservations about Asami’s commitment to their one and only child. What a fucking mess!

It took an hour for Asami to get over his conniption in the office, and then they went into one of the conference rooms to discuss business matters while staff scurried to replace the broken furniture. That his boss was now calmly calculating variable cost ratios and debating which ETFs to add or delete from his portfolio with his VPs in Finance was more unnerving than enduring the fit he had thrown earlier. Sitting next to a smoldering volcano was more dangerous than taking cover from one that had already blown its stack as far as Kirishima was concerned. The other men at the table were oblivious to all this. All they saw was their boss being his usual demanding, no-nonsense self, but Kirishima saw a man driven mad by what could only be his obsessive love for Takaba and Kirishima had no idea how to fix this latest disaster. Shit, shit, shit!

After the meeting, Asami returned to his now pristine office, opened his safe, and loaded his Beretta. Suoh showed up with two other security staff and Kirishima breathed a sigh of relief. “Boss really needs to blow off some steam,” Kirishima said under his breath. “Hope you’ve got a whole pile of meatbags for him to play with.” Suoh raised an eyebrow, questioning. “My brilliant plan backfired,” Kirishima explained with a heavy sigh. 

Suoh raised _both_ eyebrows in complete surprise. “Really?”

“Really.” Kirishima’s shoulders slumped in despair. “My ass is toast.”

After a moment of thoughtful consideration, Suoh suggested, “You should talk to that friend of Takaba’s. Kou. The one with the long hair and earring. He seems like a real pushover. Tell him you’ll murder him if he doesn’t convince Takaba to change his mind.” 

“Murder just him or Takaba, too?” asked Kirishima half-jokingly. Early on, he really did wish Takaba would disappear, but now it wasn’t an option, was it? Asami would probably let himself die in a hail of gunfire if he ever lost the boy, and Kirishima could not let that happen. 

“Up to you,” Suoh replied. “I’ll keep boss busy in the meantime.” When Kirishima continued to frown, Suoh reached out and put a giant hand on his colleague’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. It can’t get any worse, so it can only get better, right?”

It seemed absurd. Asami had been unshakeable and pragmatic, coolly rational and unwavering in all the years Kirishima had known him, but now one slender, snarky, staunchly ethical photojournalist had managed to completely upend Asami’s life and undo everything they had worked so hard to achieve. Asami hadn’t put it into words at the meeting earlier, but Kirishima could sense that his boss was ready to jettison any and all holdings that had the taint of illegality. In other words, he was willing to throw away the wealth of his empire in order to keep Takaba with him, use it as a bargaining chip to make Takaba stay. The boy had threatened to uncover Asami’s dirty dealings right from the start, and Asami had risen easily to the challenge, but now he was actually backing down all for the sake of ensuring Takaba’s devotion. It was more than Kirishima could swallow. A man like Asami shouldn’t bow down to anyone, but love had laid him low.

What Kou told him that evening came as a huge relief. If Takaba really did want to turn down that inane TV offer, then surely Asami would come to his senses. Sanity could be restored to the world. Kirishima hurried back to the office, anxious to sit Asami down and give him the news that Takaba had no real desire to leave, he was just counting on Asami to be the knight in shining armor sweeping him off his feet. For the first time, Kirishima was actually looking forward to bringing those two together.

***

The music was pounding in Takaba’s ears, the sound of the synths making him undulate his hips. He closed his eyes, losing himself in the rhythm of the song and the richness of the singer’s voice. He was in love…and so utterly unmoored. The DJ was playing something that thumped right alongside his heart in sync, beating, beating, beating right down into the core of his soul. He felt strong arms around his chest wrapping him in a heated embrace, then lips against the nape of his neck. A stranger was grinding his hips behind him and Takaba felt the unmistakable bulge of an impressive cock against the small of his back. Some stranger was taking liberties with him on the dance floor, but wasn’t that what he was here for? To forget all his worries?

Takaba leaned back against the stranger, swallowed hard when he felt long fingers at his neck. Those fingers tightened and for a moment Takaba was gripped in panic. He’d been choked before and not in a pleasant way, but then the fingers relaxed into a caress and another hand at his waist turned him around. “Ah…Asami?” Before him, crotch-to-crotch and face-to-face, stood the love of his life. Asami Ryuichi. And he was dressed like Jotaro Kujo, right down to the heavy gold chain hanging from the collar of his dark blue school uniform, the tattered cap pulled down low over his handsome face. “What are you—?”

His question was muffled in a deep kiss as Asami bent over him and swept his tongue into Takaba’s mouth in an act that said without a shred of doubt, “You are mine. Forever.” When Takaba opened his eyes, all he could do was look on in wonder as Asami danced with him, bumping, grinding…it was sex on the dance floor, that’s what it was, and Asami wasn’t close to being satisfied by the time the song ended and the new one started. Takaba didn’t say a word as Asami grabbed him by the hand and led him out of the club and into the backseat of the limo idling at the curb. Kou was still inside dancing away but Takaba couldn’t worry about his best friend right now, not when Asami was putting his mouth on his exposed abs and licking a hot wet stripe to each nipple as he pushed up Takaba’s crop top, then yanked down his baggy trousers.

“Oh. My. God,” Takaba thought to himself in a drunken haze. “I’m going to be fucked by Jotaro!” How Asami was even dressed like his favorite character from _JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure_ would have to wait for an explanation at a later time because, right now, all that mattered to Takaba was that he was being manhandled into the lap of the sexiest man he had ever laid eyes on in the backseat of a luxury sedan. “Asami!” Takaba cried as slick fingers opened him up. He was drunk and sweaty and no longer tongue-tied as the confession cascaded from his mouth, “I love you. I love you!”

“That’s my cute Akihito,” Asami rumbled against his neck. What he wanted to do was plunge his cock into Takaba, make him take him to the hilt in one go, but he held back. There was a time for pain, glorious pain, but in this moment—this precious moment when Takaba had finally uttered the words he had waited so patiently to hear—he wanted only pleasure for his kitten, he wanted to make it so very good for him. He put his hands on Takaba’s hips and lowered him slowly onto his throbbing cock, sucking at each nipple as Takaba keened out. “My darling boy, daddy loves you best.”

Behind the steering wheel, Kirishima turned up the volume on the radio as he navigated through the midnight streets of Tokyo. He’d have to stock Kou’s fridge with more of that gross melon soda and some decent beer and sake as a way of saying “thank you.” It was Kou who had told him where Takaba would be that night and how Asami could win him over by dressing up as Takaba’s favorite manga character. Kou was a flake, but he was a true friend to Takaba and Kirishima was not one to overlook an asset, especially if it benefited Asami. He glanced into the rearview mirror, saw Takaba’s face contorted into a scream of ecstasy, and smiled.

_____

This is the song that inspired this chapter: [Sonique, It Feels So Good](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xsEVT4MQ7Tw)

I first heard it played in the clubs when I was in Tokyo years ago. I heard it again at a club in Brooklyn last weekend and it sounded just as amazing even though it's so old. I think it's the perfect song for Asami and Takaba to dance to.

In case you aren't familiar with JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, this is [Jotaro Kujo](https://www.google.com/search?q=Jotaro+Kujo&client=safari&rls=en&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwimhbv0meriAhViT98KHV9fAiwQ_AUIECgB&biw=1120&bih=653#imgrc=Se4WkJUfgydIRM:), this is [Rohan Kishibe](https://www.google.com/search?q=Rohan+Kishibe&client=safari&rls=en&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjaou2VmuriAhXpYt8KHSCWABYQ_AUIECgB&biw=1120&bih=653#imgrc=G5sAlavZ9T5E6M:), and this is [Kakyoin](https://www.google.com/search?q=Kakyoin&client=safari&rls=en&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjHkrXSmuriAhVBheAKHTl7AAQQ_AUIECgB&biw=1120&bih=653#imgrc=9HeHvct5vnUHxM:).

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a HUGE fan of JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, especially the anime adaptation of the manga by Araki Hirohiko, and two of my favorite characters are Jotaro and Rohan, so I couldn’t stop myself from having Asami and Takaba dress as these iconic dudes. Yeah, I know: manga characters cosplaying as other manga characters…welcome to my twisted world! Muwaaaahhh…


	19. Chapter 19

A ribbon of sunlight glowed gold through the sliver of space between the heavy curtains. Takaba rubbed his bleary eyes, wishing it wasn’t morning already, then quietly got up to pee. God, his bladder felt like it was going to burst. He had drunk way too much the night before, but in a rare instance of forethought, he had wisely stuck to beer and was spared a hangover. It was with the softest of touches that he closed the bathroom door behind him, and then turned on the light. Asami was still asleep and he didn’t want to wake him. If he did, the man would probably want a bout of morning sex and his ass was sore enough from the pounding he took the previous night, first in the limo, then at the penthouse, because a man like Asami had an insatiable appetite when it came to sex and one round was never enough. Not that Takaba had complained. In fact, getting pile driven by Asami dressed up as Jotaro Kujo had been the biggest turn on. Where or how he had gotten that costume was something Takaba had yet to ask him. He wanted to ask him some other things, too, things that had been said between them that he wasn’t quite sure were real or merely wishful thinking fueled by alcohol.

“Ahhh…” It felt so damn good to empty his bladder, even if it seemed to take forever. His hips popped and creaked as he swiveled them gently, trying to work the ache out of them while keeping his dick aimed at the bowl. With his free hand, he mindlessly caressed his nipples—they were sore, too…all Asami’s fault—then he ran his fingers down to his belly; he was bloated, much to his dismay. “Shit…am I getting a beer belly already at my age?” That wouldn’t do at all. He was only twenty-four, for fuck’s sake, and he was proud of his slender figure. Asami was _ancient_ compared to him and _his_ abs were rock hard. Takaba made a mental note to do at least fifty sit-ups before breakfast. Mmm, breakfast. He was in the mood for a gigantic glass of cola and a heap of French fries doused in vinegar. And oh, he wanted to stuff his face with mochi, too, the ones with the red bean paste filling, then maybe finish the meal off with some congee flavored with bits of bonito flakes and salted preserved eggs. There was a knock on the bathroom door as he continued to contemplate all the weird things he wanted to eat for breakfast.

“Are you alive in there? I’m coming in.” Asami opened the door and went to stand naked next to Takaba at the toilet.

“I’m still peeing!” Takaba protested. Good lord, had they no shame? Wasn’t this the kind of embarrassing shit that married couples did in front of each other because their lives weren’t even worth living anymore due to utter boredom?

“I have to pee, too,” Asami yawned, “and you were taking forever.”

“Yeah, well…what if I were—”

“No need to overthink it, Takaba,” Asami interrupted. “It’s just two guys taking a piss. People do it all the time in public bathrooms. Get over it.”

“Since when are _you_ ever in a public bathroom?” Takaba was further annoyed when Asami actually finished while he was still dribbling—was there anything Asami couldn’t do better than him?—then patted him on the belly before turning on the shower and stepping under the hot spray.

“What the hell, man?” huffed Takaba, who flushed the toilet and snickered when he saw Asami stiffen as the water temperature suddenly rose too high. “Don’t you dare say a word.” 

“What was I going to say?” asked Asami, his hands smoothly lathering up his pecs and abs. He motioned Takaba under the showerhead and started soaping his shoulders and back, then the crack of his ass.

“You were going to say something snide about my beer belly,” Takaba mumbled in return, his eyes closed as he gave himself over to the pleasant sensation of Asami’s big hands moving over his body, slicking him up with that expensive soap he ordered from Paris.

“Beer belly, is it?” Asami moved his hands to Takaba’s chest, then down to circle around said beer belly. He nibbled at Takaba’s wet earlobe. “Whatever happened to that little bun in the oven you’ve been dreaming about? Were you making false promises?”

There was a moment of brain freeze—the bane of his school days when the math teacher would ask Takaba to solve for ‘x’ or ‘y’ or whatever and he felt like a deer caught in the headlights—before his indignation outpaced his horror and his mouth opened in a fiery retort, “Those were _nightmares_ I’ve been having, you jerk! And I’m not baking any freaking buns for you!”

Asami leaned down and kissed him silent, their bodies slipping and sliding against each other as Asami backed Takaba into the tile wall. They were both fast becoming hard and the feel of Takaba squirming in his arms and the sound of his breath hitching higher and higher in his throat was something Asami would never tire of. He turned Takaba around to face the wall and pushed in slowly, felt the head of his cock slip in with just a little resistance, and then his boy was pushing his hips back, eager for more. “You’re still ready for me, Akihito…still hungry for my cock…”

“Ungh…fuck…you’re always so damn smug…you bastard…ah…” Takaba was quickly losing his mind to the overwhelming sensation of pleasure, all the grey matter in his skull turning to mush, but gosh darn it he had to know for sure, so he panted out into the steamy air, “Did you mean it? Asami…what you said last night…did you mean it?” There was no room for pride when he was so undone by Asami’s cock, by the man tearing him apart and putting him back together again. For the longest time, Takaba had told himself that it didn’t matter, as if a lie could somehow protect him from a reality he wouldn’t be able to face, one in which he and Asami were no longer together. Asami could dump him at any moment and he would have no defense against that except to tell himself the lie that it didn’t matter if Asami didn’t love him. Only, it did matter. It mattered so very much. “You said you loved me best. Do you?” Behind him, Asami stilled, only the sound of the larger man’s steady breathing in his ear intruded on the loud beating of his own heart. Then Takaba felt Asami wrap his arms around him tightly as he began rocking into him once more.

“I did say that.” He plunged his cock fully into Takaba, pulled out to the tip, and plunged back in. “And I meant it. How many times do you need to hear me say it?” Asami had always been a man of few words, preferring to show rather than tell, and where had that gotten him? It had gotten him to the top of the heap in the underworld, it had gotten him wealth and power, it had gotten him fear and respect. It had also gotten him a life devoid of someone he truly wanted to share it with, until now. And if that meant opening his mouth and saying all the cringey things he’d sworn he’d never utter aloud, then he’d have to do it. He snapped his hips hard and punched a cry out of Takaba. It made Asami almost delirious with happiness. “I love you. Only you. No one else. Ever. Don’t you know that by now? I wore that fucking schoolboy uniform for you, goddamn it. What more can I do to show you I want you to stay with me?”

Takaba rested his forehead between his spread hands against the tiles. The room was spinning, he was trembling all over, on the verge of orgasm and something bordering on insanity. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized that he had already agreed to the TV thing and that maybe that was a big “oops,” but Asami mentioning that schoolboy uniform was making him shiver anew with excitement. He found himself stroking his cock and blurting out, “Can I call you Jotaro next time?”

“What?”

“Jotaro. I want you to wear that uniform again and let me call you Jotaro. God, you looked so hot…ahhh!” Takaba painted the tiles with his cum, sobbing out with his release.

Asami could only wonder what kind of bizarre kinky shit Takaba was imagining in his head regarding this Jotaro fellow. Had his lover been fixated on high school uniforms all along? Whatever. If Takaba wanted to play dress up, then he was down with that. He was ready to tackle anything Takaba threw his way. In fact, he was going to show Takaba just how cool he could be, way cooler than some stupid manga character.

***

The meeting with Nippon Network to negotiate his contract was set for a week later. Asami confirmed this over the phone with Takaba that following Tuesday. Takaba was still confused by Asami’s actions. He had told the man in no uncertain terms that, though he had initially said ‘yes’ to hosting that silly show, he was more than willing to back out of the whole thing if that’s what Asami wanted.

“Wait a minute.” Takaba scrubbed his face. It was three in the morning Tokyo time and Asami was _somewhere_ on a business trip, probably in a bar or restaurant because Takaba could hear light music and chattering in the background. “I told you I wouldn’t do it if it pissed you off, and now you want me to go ahead with it? Didn’t you tell me you wanted me to stay with you?”

“Hmm.”

“What kind of answer is that?" In a fit of exasperation, Takaba punched Asami’s pillow beside him in bed, then fluffed it up again quickly. God only knew, the jerk was probably watching him somehow via some hidden camera and would punish him later for assaulting his pillow in his absence. "And where the hell are you anyway?” 

“Reykjavik.”

“Reykjavik? You're in Iceland?”

“Where else would Reykjavik be?”

“What…” Takaba sighed in defeat. Asami’s phone call had woken him up and he wanted to get back to sleep, he was so tired. “My nips hurt,” he said absently, then, “Hey, don’t forget, my parents will be in Tokyo on Friday. You sure you’ll be back by then?” 

“I’ll be back.” 

“My dad says he doesn’t want to do anything fancy, like any of that five star Michelin shit you like so much.” The truth was, Takaba’s father didn’t own a decent suit or formal dinner jacket and he wasn’t about to shell out the dough to impress a criminal like Asami Ryuichi, not even to save face for his only son. In fact, Takaba Sr. planned on bringing Asami down to the level of the working class man, and working class men did NOT dine at fancy restaurants specializing in _kaiseki_.

“Michelin only awards up to three stars,” Asami corrected. 

“Ugh...” Takaba snuggled down under the duvet again. It always felt so much colder in bed when Asami wasn’t next to him, colder and infinitely lonelier.

“Just let me know the time and place and I’ll be there,” assured Asami. “Go back to sleep.”

There was an awkward moment of silence as each man hesitated to say the words hanging between them like a gigantic balloon filled with the hot air of embarrassment, and then Asami said, “I can’t wait to hold you.”

Takaba smiled and buried his face in Asami’s pillow, inhaled the man’s familiar scent deep into his nostrils. “I love you, too.” He shut off his phone and turned off the bedside lamp, then hugged Asami’s pillow to his chest. He was crying again, just a little, and it felt good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kaiseki = a very traditional and elaborate form of Japanese cuisine and very expensive.
> 
> I promise that Takaba’s parents will indeed show up in the next chapter, which is half-written. I have to go out of town for a few days but I wanted to get this chapter out before I leave. I’ll post the next chapter when I get back after the July 4th holiday.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised an update after the July 4th holiday. It’s a long one, so strap in for the ride. For the full "Dad, are we there yet?" experience, be sure to check out all the links at the end of the chapter.

 

Takaba was nervous, not just because his parents were in town and would be meeting his lover for the first time, but the ‘venue’ his father had chosen was rather unconventional for such a momentous occasion. Kentaro had insisted on going to Shidax, one of the most popular karaoke chains in Tokyo that offered both Japanese food as well as pizza, his favorite treat when slugging down beers and belting out songs. Kentaro had spent most of his life traveling abroad, including extended stays in New York covering stories about political and police corruption, and pizza was something that had become an addiction. It wasn’t just the bready, cheesy, saucy goodness of pizza that was so appealing. To a man like Kentaro, it represented unadorned honesty with nothing extraneous or ostentatious, what every _decent_ man should be. In other words, Kentaro saw himself as a damn good slice of pizza.

“I’ll bet that snobby billionaire yakuza lover of yours has never eaten anything as plebeian as pizza,” Kentaro smirked when Takaba arrived at their room at the Century Hyatt in Shinjuku. Asami had been willing to put them up in one of his super high-end luxury hotels, but Kentaro had refused the offer, opting to stay at what was a more than reputable establishment right by Shinjuku Station. He could earn triple the bonus points on his credit card if he booked two nights at the Hyatt, and Kentaro wasn't one to let such an opportunity pass. “The great Asami Ryuichi probably can’t stomach anything that isn’t encrusted in solid gold.”

“Don’t be such an ass!” Hisayo called out from the bathroom, where she was putting her hair up in buns on both sides of her head, just like Princess Leia in _Star Wars_ , her favorite American sci-fi movie. “Asami-sama is NOT yakuza!” Satisfied with her hairdo, she dashed out, almost tripping on her platform heels, and hugged Takaba, pinching his cheeks and crying, “There’s my little Aki-kun!” as if he were still two years old and in diapers.

“Aw, gee Mom,” Takaba moaned, “I’m not a kid anymore.” His mother had been such a hardnosed disciplinarian when he was a child—spanking him for getting bad grades, nagging him to sit up straight or keep still or stop being a brat—but now that he was an adult, she wanted to treat him like a baby all over again. He let her kiss him anyway before handing over the goodies he had bought in the hotel gift shop: Meiji macadamia chocolates for his mother and a bottle of Suntory whisky for his father. He noticed that his mother was wearing a pair of spandex yoga pants in neon yellow and a billowy psychedelic print blouse that could put those hippies at Woodstock to shame. His father was in obvious competition with her for Fashion-Disaster-of-the-Century in a pair of brown, blue, and orange plaid pants coupled with a flesh colored shirt with cream piping which lent it an Old West-style flair. He looked like somebody who had played a round of golf and then hit a saloon; knowing his father, such a thing was within the realm of possibility.

“Um…guys…is this what you’re wearing out tonight?” Takaba asked with thinly veiled dread. He had decided to play it safe with his usual button down shirt worn over a tank top and a pair of clean dark jeans.

“Of course,” Kentaro replied. He proudly smoothed down the front of his shirt and then turned around to show off the fringe that decorated the back. “I paid 500 yen for this!”

They were his parents, and he loved them, god did he ever, so Takaba choked down the horror and made small talk with his father while his mother ran back into the bathroom to put on her lipstick. They were both excited to meet the famous, or infamous, Asami Ryuichi and Takaba was so grateful that they hadn’t given him any grief about the whole gay aspect of the relationship. In fact, both of his parents were acting like there was nothing out of the ordinary, as if Takaba had a girlfriend rather than a boyfriend and wasn’t engaging in anal sex and cocksucking on a regular basis. What more could he ask for? So what if their fashion sense was off the chart? Asami would show up in his customary 500,000 yen suit and Takaba would still love his parents all the same. They were his mother and father and if Asami couldn’t handle it, well tough on him.

Asami’s flight was scheduled to arrive at Narita at four-thirty in the afternoon that day, so they had agreed to meet at Shidax at eight o’clock in the evening to account for any possible delays. Takaba and his parents settled into their private room and ordered drinks and snacks and went over the song selection while they waited. And waited. It was nine o’clock when Kentaro looked at his watch and grunted, “Not one for punctuality, is he?” They were all on their third drinks and his mother was already warbling “My Heart Will Go On" like a pro, not even needing to look at the monitor to be able to sing the lyrics in English. His mother had always been pitch perfect, too, and was hitting all the high notes on key. 

“Ha ha ha, you know how traffic is on a Friday night,” Takaba laughed. Then he took out his phone and texted Asami: _Where the hell are you?_ He almost jumped out of his skin when his phone dinged a second later with a reply: _I’m right outside the door_. 

In walked Asami an hour late and Takaba’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. The man was unrecognizable. Instead of his flawlessly tailored three-piece suit and silk tie, Asami was dressed in a casual knit shirt that looked like it was cut out of an American flag, a pair of khaki cargo shorts riddled with pockets, the kind of cheap rubber open toe sandals favored by the vendors at the fish market, and wireframe aviator sunglasses straight out of the 100 Yen store. It was an ensemble that flattered no one. It was, in a word, hideous.

“What the hell?” Takaba jumped up and pushed Asami back into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him. It was rude to behave this way in front of his own parents, but Takaba had enough alcohol in him to not give a damn. “What is _this_?” He waved his hands frantically at Asami, arms outstretched as he tried to comprehend the startling vision before him. 

Unfazed by Takaba’s reaction, Asami folded his arms nonchalantly across his chest and shrugged, as Suoh often did when confronted with a question. “It’s my ‘Weekend Dad’ look,” Asami explained.

“Wee… _Weekend Dad_ look? Th’ fuck? Since when do you…you don’t know shit about being a Weekend Dad!” cried Takaba. Good lord, his parents dressing like it was Halloween in America was nothing compared to Asami pretending he had some imaginary lawn to mow in the suburbs. Even his own father hadn’t dressed like that when trimming the hedges. Okay…maybe he had, but this was Asami Ryuichi!

The crime lord reached into one of the twelve pockets in his shorts and took out a pack of Dunhill cigarettes. “Are you going to introduce me to your parents or not?” Asami asked. He lit up, inhaled, smirked. 

Takaba’s mouth hung open, then he slumped against the door, grabbing two handfuls of his own hair—which he had bleached back to its usual silvery blond—and yanking in frustration. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“I’m doing this _for_ you, Takaba. Everything I do, I do for you.” Asami stepped close and gave Takaba a smoky kiss on the lips. “Have I ever let you down?”

Well…no. Asami had always come through for him, showing up in the nick of time whenever he was in trouble, saving him from people trying to harm him, soothing him with sex and kissing him senseless at every opportunity. Even so, he couldn’t understand why Asami had decided to come dressed like a fish monger with a lawn to mow. He had to have faith in him, though, and he couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. Takaba gulped in a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay. Just…”

“They’re going to love me,” Asami declared as he lifted Takaba’s chin up for another kiss, “as much as I love you.” 

***

Down the hallway in a different suite, Kirishima sat thoughtfully nursing a Manhattan while Suoh lay prone on the floor by the monitor singing “Eyes Without a Face” in a convincing, albeit unintentional, impersonation of Mr. Relaxation himself, Perry Como. The blond tank had undergone an emergency tooth extraction a few hours earlier and the strong pain killers—enough to bring down a small elephant—combined with the margaritas he was sipping out of a straw, were sending Suoh to new heights of blissful numbness. Suoh’s horizontal, atonal crooning barely registered on Kirishima’s brain, however; he was too distracted by his own concerns. This was a big night for his boss and one more step towards a future that filled Kirishima with both trepidation and hope. He had spent the last few days traveling with Asami to Germany, Iceland, Scotland, Sweden. Asami was setting plans in motion that Kirishima had not anticipated, but he couldn’t stand in the way either. Why would he? Didn’t Asami have the right to a good life? One that wasn’t filled with bloodshed or violence? When Asami had returned to the office that evening after he had spoken to Kou, his boss’ suit was badly stained with someone else’s fluids. Suoh had promised to keep Asami occupied and the blond tank was a man of his word. Nearly five hours had been spent in a warehouse where Asami had taken his time ‘disciplining’ a very sorry cohort of ‘employees’ who had disappointed him in some manner. Asami had indeed blown off some steam, but he didn’t look happy either, so it had given Kirishima such joy to tell Asami that Takaba didn’t want to leave him; it was all a misunderstanding. Takaba loved him, was devoted to him, and if Asami wore this particular schoolboy uniform which Kirishima had procured from one of the best cosplay designers in Tokyo, then he could be assured that Takaba was truly his. 

Asami had fingered the outfit—a dark jacket and trousers, a purple T-shirt, a tattered cap adorned with gold ornaments, two colorful belts, a pair of loafers but no socks—and put them on without a single word of protest. He and Kirishima had worked together for years and Asami knew everything there was to know about his personal assistant, a man who was a specialist in all forms of kink. They had been through everything together and Asami trusted Kirishima with his life. He was as much a brother to him as Yoh was, as Kuroda was, even Suoh, with whom he shared no actual blood ties. He would trust him now, too, and it had _worked_. Takaba had fallen under his spell all over again in that club in Roppongi, let him dry hump him on the dance floor and then ravish him during the limo ride home, and once more in bed, when Asami had driven Takaba to the edge of ecstasy and beyond in that ridiculous outfit. It was for this very same reason—his faith in Kirishima’s ability to solve the most complex equation—that he showed up at Shidax dressed in such appalling fashion. Kirishima had researched everything there was to know about Kentaro (who had a rabid dislike of the wealthy elite) and his wife Hisayo (who was a sucker for love songs) and Asami had come prepared. Yeah. He was Asami Ryuichi, a man who always got what he wanted and, right now, the only thing standing between him and the boy he loved was Takaba’s parents. No matter. He was locked and loaded and ready to blow them away. 

***

Two hours later, they were all trashed on drinks and junk food and Asami was wowing everyone with his rendition of “Machine Gun Kiss.” Takaba’s face was red with embarrassment because Asami was singing his favorite song from his favorite videogame—the most _romantic_ song in the world in Takaba’s opinion—and Takaba knew that Asami was singing it just for him. He dared a glance at his parents and breathed a sigh of relief. His mother had stars in her eyes and his father, not to be outdone, had jumped up in the middle of the song and joined in, playing air guitar and singing along with drunken enthusiasm.

“Is this a dream?” Takaba mused to himself as he stuffed another slice of pizza into his mouth. His lover was channeling Kiryū Kazuma and his father might actually be under the false impression that Asami was a regular Joe Schmo and not some snooty rich guy who took bribes from corrupt politicians and dealt in illegal firearms. Well, there’s nothing like alcohol to grease the wheels of good will…and loosen the lips. The words out of his father’s mouth when the song ended made Takaba’s ears burn.

“Hey, I hope you’ve been using ‘protection’ with this one,” Kentaro said to Asami with a wink-wink and a finger pointed at Takaba. 

“Dad!” Takaba shrieked. “Oh my god, it’s not like we have STDs!”

“That’s not what I mean,” Kentaro replied. He nudged Asami with his elbow as they sat back down on the sofa and helped themselves to more beer and sake. “Truth be told, Hisayo and I were beginning to wonder if our Aki-kun would ever hook-up with _anyone_.”

Hisayo nodded in agreement. “Aki-kun’s never had a boyfriend, or a girlfriend for that matter.”

“Mom, that’s not fair!” Takaba shrieked again. “Plenty of girls liked me in school!”

His parents exchanged knowing looks accompanied by eye rolls. 

“Yes, dear,” Hisayo soothed with a pinch to Takaba’s cheek, “we’re all entitled to our _fantasies_.”

Not one to veer off-topic even when bombed, Kentaro asked Asami once more. “So, uh, have you been using ‘protection’ or not?” Asami’s own eye roll told him that the answer was a definitive ‘no.’ Kentaro cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to smooth away a knotted muscle. “Ah…well…ahem…let’s hope that’s not a problem.”

Takaba was plastered, but this weird conversation was sobering him up fast. “What problem are you talking about? I swear, neither of us have gonorrhea or whatever.” 

There was another cryptic glance shared between his parents, and then his mother asked in an overly cheerful sing-song voice, “Aki-kun, remember when you were little and you fell really hard on the bar on your bicycle and you had to go to the hospital?”

“Uh...yeah, I kinda remember that. I think that was before I started kindergarten?”

“Yes. You had just turned five. Remember they had to do a little procedure to your...boy bits?”

Holy crap. He had forgotten all about that, the excruciating pain in his nuts and the subsequent hospital stay. “I remember I got to eat as much candy as I wanted. And, yeah, there was this one nurse…she was real pretty…”

“Well, when they went to fix your…little kumquats…the doctors discovered that you were… _special_ ,” Hisayo explained with a strained smile.

“Special?” asked Takaba.

“Yes, special,” Kentaro affirmed. “We never said anything because we assumed you would end up liking _girls_ , but apparently this is not the case.” Kentaro eyed Asami up and down and decided that, yes, Asami was undoubtedly a man through and through, a super seme for sure, and one that appeared to be menacingly _fertile_. “So, if you’re going to carry on with this… _friendship_ , then it’s important that you use ‘protection.’ Otherwise, you might find yourself in the ‘family way’ if you get my drift.”

“What kind of crazy ‘drift’ am I supposed to get?” Takaba demanded. "What do you mean by 'family way'?" None of this was making any sense and he was beginning to lose his temper. “Why don’t you just come right out and tell me what the hell is going on?” His parents continued to share secret glances but what really freaked him out was the placid look on Asami’s face. The man was calmly smoking a Dunhill as if he knew exactly what his parents were rambling on about.

“Don’t worry, Takaba.” Asami reached over and rested his hand gently, possessively on Takaba’s belly. “I’ll make an honest boy out of you yet.”

_____

 

My source for Asami’s outfit and the song that he sings is taken directly from the _Yakuza_ videogame series in which Kiryū Kazuma performs “Machine Gun Kiss” in a karaoke club. You can see an abbreviated version [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfAkmgrOR5w) (you can skip to time stamp 0:08).

Keep in mind that both Kiryū and Asami share the same seiyū (Kuroda Takaya), so when you hear Kiryū singing this song, you’re basically hearing Asami sing it, too.

“Machine Gun Kiss” is a genuinely romantic song, believe it or not, and it really is available as a song selection in karaoke clubs in Tokyo (I’ve sung it myself in Japanese with my Best Boy Z). Alas, you won’t find it in the States, where karaoke is nothing like it is in Japan. There are some pretty poor translations of the lyrics in English out there, but if you want to hear the entire song with a fairly good translation in English and Romaji, then you can view it [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WhcqjTXaeqU) (there is a weird glitch at the beginning of the video, but it passes quickly).

And here’s the song that Suoh sings: [Billy Idol, Eyes Without A Face](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bI0MCK7tPQ)

Why this song? Well, in my own headcanon, this is what runs through Suoh’s mind when he’s gouging out some poor sucker’s eyes because, deep down inside, Suoh is a very sensitive dude. My inspiration for HOW Suoh was singing is the great comedian Eugene Levy performing as Mr. Relaxation, Perry Como, in a compilation of hilarious skits: [SCTV, Perry Como: Still Alive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LqwHMiJdIqU)

If you don't know who Perry Como is, he's an American singer from my grandparents' era who was known as Mr. Relaxation due to his relaxed singing style, so relaxed that it made the listener feel as if he were singing while lying down.

 


End file.
